LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


GIFT  OF 
MRS.  BRUCE  C.  HOPPER 


^fuU-i^ 


'^c(^-,.^     .,/ 


ABINGTON  ABBEY 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MERRILEE3 

EXTON  MANOR 

THE  ELDEST  SON 

THE  SQUIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  HONOUR  OF  THE  CLINTONS 

THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE 

THE  OLD  ORDER  CHANGETH 

WATERMKADS 

UPSIDONIA 

ABINGTON  ABBET 


ABINGTON  ABBEY 


A  NOVEL 


BY 


ARCHIBALD  MARSHALL 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


COPTRIQHT.   1917 

By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


TO 
MY  DEAR  LITTLE  ELIZABETH 


CONTENTS 

OHAPTBR  PAOE 

I  The  Very  House 1 

II  The  Vicar 15 

III  The  First  Visit 27 

IV  Neighbours 41 

V  Settling  In 56 

VI  Visitors 72 

VII  Young  George 90 

VIII  Whitsuntide 104 

IX  Caroline  and  Beatrix          .        .        .  121 

X  A  Drive  and  a  Dinner        .        ..       .  136 

XI  Caroline 151 

XII  The  Vicar  Unburdens  Himself         .  165 

XIII  A  Letter        ......  181 

XIV  Lassigny 197 

XV  Beatrix  Comes  Home  ....  214 

XVI  Clouds ,       .  228 

XVII  Bunting  Takes  Advice        .        .        .  245 

XVIII  Two  Conversations      ....  254 

XIX  MoLLiE  Walter     .         .         .        .        .  271 

XX  A  Meet  at  Wilborough      .        .        .  287 

XXI  A  Fine  Hunting  Morning  .        .        .  301 

XXII  Another  Affair 316 

XXIII  Bertie  and  Mollie       ....  332 

XXIV  Sunday 348 

XXV  News 364 

XXVI  The  Last       ......  378 


ABINGTON  ABBEY 


CHAPTER    I 

THE  VERY   HOUSE 

"  I  BELIEVE  I've  got  the  very  house,  Cara." 
"  Have  you,  darling?  It's  the  fifty- third." 
"  Ah,  but  you  wait  till  you  see.  Abington  Abbey. 
What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  name?  Just  come 
into  the  market.  There  are  cloisters,  and  a  chapel. 
Stew  ponds.  A  yew  walk.  Three  thousand  acres,  and 
a  good  head  of  game.  More  can  be  had  by  arrange- 
ment, and  we'll  arrange  it.  Presentation  to  living. 
We'll  make  Bunting  a  parson,  and  present  him  to  it. 
Oh,  it's  the  very  thing.  I  haven't  told  you  half.  Come 
and  have  a  look  at  it." 

George  Grafton  spread  out  papers  and  photographs 
on  a  table.  His  daughter,  Caroline,  roused  herself 
from  her  book  and  her  easy  chair  in  front  of  the  fire  to 
come  and  look  at  them.  He  put  his  arm  around  her 
slim  waist  and  gave  her  a  kiss,  which  she  returned  with 
a  smile.  "  Darling  old  George,"  she  said,  settling  his 
tie  more  to  her  liking,  "  I  sometimes  wish  you  weren't 
quite  so  young.  You  let  yourself  in  for  so  many  dis- 
appointments." 

George  Grafton  did  look  rather  younger  than  his 
fifty  years,  in  spite  of  his  grey  hair.  He  had  a  fresh 
complexion   and  a  pair   of  dark,  amused,  alert  eyes. 

1 


2  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

His  figure  was  that  of  a  young  man,  and  his  daughter 
had  only  settled  his  tie  out  of  affection,  for  it  and  the 
rest  of  his  clothes  were  perfect,  with  that  perfection 
which  comes  from  Bond  Street  and  Savile  Row,  the 
expenditure  of  considerable  sums  of  money,  and  exact 
knowledge  and  taste  in  such  matters.  He  was,  in  fact, 
as  agreeable  to  the  eye  as  any  man  of  his  age  could  be, 
unless  you  were  to  demand  evidences  of  unusual  intel- 
lectual power,  which  he  hadn't  got,  and  did  very  well 
without. 

As  for  his  eldest  daughter  Caroline,  her  appeal  to 
the  eye  needed  no  qualification  whatever,  for  she  had, 
in  addition  to  her  attractions  of  feature  and  colouring, 
that  adorable  gift  of  youth,  which,  in  the  case  of  some 
fortunate  beings,  seems  to  emanate  grace.  It  was  so 
with  her.  At  the  age  of  twentj'  there  might  have  been 
some  doubt  as  to  whether  she  could  be  called  beautiful 
or  only  very  pretty,  and  the  doubt  would  not  be  resolved 
for  some  few  years  to  come.  She  had  delicate,  regular 
features,  sweet  eyes,  a  kind  smiling  mouth,  a  peach- 
like soft-tinted  skin,  nut-coloured  hair  with  a  wave  in  it, 
a  slender  column  of  a  neck,  with  deliciously  modulated 
curves  of  breast  and  shoulders.  She  looked  thorough- 
bred, was  fine  at  the  extremities,  clean-boned  and  long 
in  the  flank,  and  moved  with  natural  grace  and  freedom. 
Half  of  these  qualities  belonged  to  her  youth,  which 
was  so  living  and  palpitating  in  her  as  to  be  a  quality 
of  beauty  in  itself. 

She  was  charmingly  dressed,  and  her  clothes,  like 
her  father's,  meant  money,  as  well  as  perfect  taste ;  or 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  3 

perhaps,  rather,  taste  perfectly  aware  of  the  needs  and 
fashions  of  the  moment.  They  were  both  of  them  people 
of  the  sort  whom  wealth  adorns,  who  are  physically  per- 
fected and  mentally  expanded  by  it:  whom  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  think  of  as  rich.  The  room  in  which  we 
first  meet  them  gave  the  same  sense  of  satisfaction  as 
their  clothes  and  general  air  of  prosperity,  and  ex- 
pressed them  in  the  same  way.  It  was  a  large  room, 
half  library,  half  morning-room.  There  was  a  dark 
carpet,  deep  chairs  and  sofas  covered  with  bright 
chintzes,  many  books,  pictures,  flowers,  some  ornaments 
of  beauty  and  value,  but  few  that  were  not  also  for 
use,  all  the  expensive  accessories  of  the  mechanism  of 
life  in  silver,  tortoise-shell,  morocco.  It  was  as  quiet 
and  homelike  as  'f  it  had  been  in  the  heart  of  the 
country,  though  it  was  actually  in  the  heart  of  Lon- 
don. A  great  fire  of  logs  leapt  and  glowed  in  the  open 
hearth,  the  numerous  electric  globes  were  reduced  in 
their  main  effect  to  a  warm  glow,  though  they  gave  their 
light  just  at  the  points  at  which  it  was  wanted.  It  was 
a  delightful  room  for  ease  of  mind  and  ease  of  body — 
or  for  family  life,  which  was  a  state  of  being  enjoyed 
and  appreciated  by  the  fortunate  family  which  in- 
habited it. 

There  were  five  of  them,  without  counting  the 
Dragon,  who  yet  counted  for  a  great  deal.  George 
Grafton  was  a  banker,  by  inheritance  and  to  some  ex- 
tent by  acquirement.  His  business  cares  sat  lightly 
on  him,  and  interfered  in  no  way  with  his  pleasures. 
But  he  liked  his  work,  as  he  liked  most  of  the  things 


4  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

that  he  did,  and  was  clever  at  it.  He  spent  a  good 
many  days  in  the  year  shooting  and  playing  golf,  and 
went  away  for  long  holidays,  generally  with  his  family. 
But  his  enjoyments  were  enhanced  by  not  being  made 
the  business  of  his  life,  and  his  business  was  al- 
most an  enjoyment  in  itself.  It  was  certainly  an 
interest,  and  one  that  he  would  not  have  been 
without. 

He  had  married  young,  and  his  wife  had  died  at  the 
birth  of  his  only  son,  fifteen  years  before.  He  had 
missed  her  greatly,  which  had  prevented  him  from 
marrying  again  when  his  children  were  all  small ;  and 
now  they  were  grown  up,  or  growing  up,  their  com- 
panionship was  enough  for  him.  But  he  still  missed  her, 
and  her  memory  was  kept  alive  among  his  children,  only 
the  eldest  of  whom,  however,  had  any  clear  recollection 
of  her. 

Beatrix,  the  second  girl,  was  eighteen,  Barbara,  the 
third,  sixteen.  Young  George,  commonly  known  as 
Bunting  in  this  family  of  nicknames,  was  fourteen.  He 
was  now  enjoying  himself  excessively  at  Eton,  would 
presently  enjoy  himself  equally  at  Cambridge,  and  in 
due  time  would  be  introduced  to  his  life  work  at  the 
bank,  under  circumstances  which  would  enable  him  to 
enjoy  himself  just  as  much  as  ever,  and  with  hardly  less 
time  at  his  disposal  than  the  fortunate  young  men 
among  his  contemporaries  whose  opportunities  for  so 
doing  came  from  wealth  inherited  and  not  acquired.  Or 
if  he  chose  to  take  up  a  profession,  which  in  his  case 
could  only  be  that  of  arms,  he  might  do  so,  with  his 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  5 

future  comfort  assured,  the  only  difference  being  that 
he  could  not  expect  to  be  quite  so  rich. 

This  is  business  on  the  higher  scale  as  it  is  under- 
stood and  for  the  most  part  practised  in  England,  that 
country  where  life  is  more  than  money,  and  money,  al- 
though it  is  a  large  factor  in  gaining  prizes  sought  for, 
is  not  the  only  one.  It  may  be  necessary  to  '  go  right 
through  the  mill '  for  those  who  have  to  make  their  own 
way  entirely,  though  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  the  pur- 
poses of  high  finance  can  be  better  served  by  some  one 
who  knows  how  to  sweep  out  an  office  floor  than  by  some 
one  who  has  left  that  duty  to  a  charwoman.  The  mys- 
teries of  a  copying-press  are  not  beyond  the  power  of 
a  person  of  ordinary  intelligence  to  learn  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  sticking  stamps  on  letters  is  an  art  which 
has  been  mastered  by  most  people  in  early  youth.  If 
it  has  not,  it  may  be  safely  left  to  subordinates.  George 
Grafton  was  as  well  dressed  as  any  man  in  London, 
but  he  had  probably  never  brushed  or  folded  his  own 
clothes.  Nor  had  he  served  behind  the  counter  of  his 
own  bank,  nor  often  filled  up  with  his  own  hand  the 
numerous  documents  which  he  so  effectively  signed. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  pure  mechanism  of  busi- 
ness, which  is  not,  after  all,  more  difficult  to  master 
than  the  mechanism  of  Latin  prose,  is  not  the  only 
thing  sought  to  be  learnt  in  this  vaunted  going  through 
of  the  mill.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  young 
Englishman  who  is  introduced  for  the  first  time  into  a 
family  business  at  the  age  of  twenty-two  or  three, 
and  has  had  the  ordinary  experience  of  public  school 


6  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

and  university  life,  is  not  at  least  as  capable  of  judg- 
ing and  dealing  with  men  as  his  less  fortunate  fellow 
who  has  spent  his  youth  and  early  manhood  doing,  the 
work  of  a  clerk.  His  opportunities,  at  least,  have 
been  wider  of  knowing  them,  and  he  has  had  his  train- 
ing in  obedience  and  discipline,  and,  if  he  has  made 
use  of  his  opportunities,  in  responsibility.  At  any  rate, 
many  of  the  old-established  firms  of  world-wide  repu- 
tation in  the  City  of  London  are  directed  by  men 
who  have  had  the  ordinary  education  of  the  English 
leisured  classes,  and  may  be  said  to  belong  to  the 
leisured  classes  themselves,  inasmuch  as  their  work  is 
not  allowed  to  absorb  all  their  energies,  and  they  live 
much  the  same  lives  as  their  neighbours  who  are  not 
engaged  in  business.  George  Grafton  was  one  of  them, 
and  Bunting  would  be  another  when  his  time  came. 

The  Dragon  was  Miss  Waterhouse,  who  had  come  to 
the  house  in  Cadogan  Place  to  teach  Caroline  fifteen 
years  before,  and  had  remained  there  ever  since.  She 
was  the  mildest,  softest-hearted,  most  devoted  and 
affectionate  creature  that  was  ever  put  into  a  position 
of  authority;  and  the  least  authoritative.  Yet  her 
word  *  went '  through  all  the  household. 

"  It  is  a  jolly  house,  you  know,  dear,"  said  Caroline, 
after  she  had  fully  examined  pictures  and  papers. 
"  I'm  not  sure  that  it  isn't  the  very  one,  at  last.  But 
are  you  sure  you  can  afford  it,  darling?  It  seems  a 
great  deal  of  money." 

"  It's  rather  cheap,  really.  They've  stuck  on  a  lot 
for  the  furniture  and  things.     But  they  say  that  it's 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  7 

not  nearly  what  they're  worth.  They'll  sell  the  place 
without  them  if  I  like,  and  have  a  sale  of  them.  They 
say  they'd  fetch  much  more  than  they're  asking  me." 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  they  do  it?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  But  we  could  go  and  have  a 
look  and  see  what  they  are  worth — to  us,  I  mean.  After 
all,  we  should  buy  just  that  sort  of  thing,  and  it  would 
take  us  a  lot  of  time  and  trouble.  We  should  probably 
have  to  pay  more  in  the  long  run,  too." 

"  I  had  rather  looked  forward  to  furnishing.  I 
should  like  the  trouble,  and  I've  got  plenty  of  time. 
And  you've  got  plenty  of  money,  darling,  unless  you've 
been  deceiving  us  all  this  time." 

"Well,  shall  we  go  and  have  a  look  at  it  together .f' 
What  about  to-morrow.'*  Have  you  got  anything  to 
do.?" 

"  Yes,  lots.  But  I  don't  think  there's  anything  I 
can't  put  off.  How  far  is  it  from  London.?  Shall  we 
motor  down.?  " 

"  Yes,  if  it's  fine.  We'd  better,  in  any  case,  as  it's 
five  miles  from  a  station,  and  we  might  not  be  able  to 
get  a  car  there.  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  five  miles 
in  a  horse  fly." 

"  You're  always  so  impatient,  darling.  Having  your 
own  way  so  much  has  spoiled  you.  I  expect  B  will 
want  to  come." 

"  Well,  she  can  if  she  likes." 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  it  was  just  you  and  me.  We  al- 
ways have  a  lot  of  fun  together." 

He  gave  her  a  hug  and  a  kiss.     The  butler  came  in 


8  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

at  that  moment  with  the  tea-tray,  and  smiled  pater- 
nall}'.     The  footman  who  followed  him  looked  abashed. 

"  Look,  Jarvis,  we've  found  the  very  house,"  said 
Caroline,  exhibiting  a  large  photograph  of  Abington 
Abbey. 

"  Lor,  miss !  "  said  the  butler  indulgently. 

Beatrix  and  Barbara  came  in,  accompanied  by  the 
Dragon. 

Beatrix  was  even  prettier  than  Caroline,  with  a  frail 
ethereal  loveliness  that  made  her  appear  almost  too 
good  for  this  sinful  world,  which  she  wasn't  at  all, 
though  she  was  a  very  charming  creature.  She  was 
very  fair,  with  a  delicious  complexion  of  cream  and 
roses,  and  a  figure  of  extreme  slimness.  She  was  still 
supposed  to  be  in  the  schoolroom,  and  occasionally  was 
so.  She  was  only  just  eighteen,  and  wore  her  hair 
looped  and  tied  with  a  big  bow ;  but  she  would  be  pre- 
sented in  the  spring  and  would  then  blossom  fully. 

Barbara  was  very  fair  too, — a  pretty  girl  with  a 
smiling  good-humoured  face,  but  not  so  pretty  as  her 
sisters.     She  had  her  arm  in  that  of  the  Dragon. 

Miss  Waterhouse  was  tall  and  straight,  with  plenti- 
ful grey  hair,  and  handsome  regular  features.  Her 
age  was  given  in  the  Grafton  family  as  '  fifty  if  a  day,' 
but  she  was  not  quite  so  old  as  that.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  seem  to  be  cut  out  for  motherhood, 
and  to  have  missed  their  vocation  by  not  marrying, 
just  as  a  born  artist  would  have  missed  his  if  he  had 
never  handled  a  brush  or  a  pen.  Fortunately,  such 
women  usually  find  somebody  else's  children  round  whom 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  9 

to  throw  their  all-embracing  tenderness.  Miss  Water- 
house  had  found  the  engaging  family  of  Grafton,  and 
loved  them  just  as  if  they  had  been  her  own.  It  was 
probably  a  good  deal  owing  to  her  that  George  Graf- 
ton had  not  made  a  second  marriage.  Men  whose  wives 
die  young,  leaving  them  with  a  family  of  small  children, 
sometimes  do  so  for  their  sake.  But  the  young  Graf- 
tons  had  missed  nothing  in  the  way  of  feminine  care ; 
their  father  had  had  no  anxiety  on  their  account  during 
their  childhood,  and  they  had  grown  into  companions 
to  him,  in  a  way  that  they  might  not  have  done  if  they 
had  had  a  step-mother.  He  owed  more  than  he  knew 
to  the  Dragon,  though  he  knew  that  he  owed  her  a  great 
deal.  She  was  of  importance  in  the  house,  but  she 
was  self-effacing.  He  was  the  centre  round  which 
everything  moved.  He  received  a  great  deal  from  his 
children  that  they  would  have  given  to  their  mother  if 
she  had  been  alive.  He  was  a  fortunate  man,  at  the 
age  of  fifty ;  for  family  affection  is  one  of  the  greatest 
gifts  of  life,  and  he  had  it  in  full  measure. 

"  We've  found  the  very  house,  boys,"  he  said,  as  the 
three  of  them  came  in.  "  Abington  Abbey,  in  Mead- 
shire.  Here  you  are.  Replete  with  every  modern  com- 
fort and  convenience.  Cara  and  I  are  going  to  take 
a  day  off  to-morrow  and  go  down  to  have  a  look  at  it." 

Beatrix  took  up  the  photographs.  "  Yes,  I  like 
that  house,"  she  said.  "  I  think  you've  struck  it  this 
time,  darling.  I'm  sorry  I  can't  come  with  you.  I'm 
going  to  fence.     But  I  trust  to  you  both  entirely." 

"  Do  you  think  Uncle  Jim  will  like  you  taking  a 


10  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

day  off,  George,  dear?"  asked  Barbara.  "You  had 
two  last  week,  you  know.  You  mustn't  neglect  your 
work.     I  don't.     The  Dragon  won't  let  me." 

*'  Barbara,  darling,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse  in  a 
voice  of  gentle  expostulation,  "  I  don't  think  you  should 
call  your  father  George.     It  isn't  respectful." 

Barbara  kissed  her.  "  You  don't  mind,  do  you, 
Daddy.''"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  from  you,"  he  said.  "  You're  my  infant 
in  arms.     '  Daddy  '  is  much  prettier  from  little  girls." 

"Darling  old  thing!"  she  said.  "You  shall  have 
it  your  own  way.  But  we  do  spoil  you.  Now  about 
this  Abington  Abbey.  Are  there  rats.^  If  so,  I  won't 
go  there." 

"  Is  there  a  nice  clergyman.''  "  asked  Beatrix.  "  You 
and  Caroline  must  call  on  the  clergyman,  and  tell  me 
what  he's  like  when  you  come  home ;  and  how  many  chil- 
dren he  has ;  and  all  about  the  neighbours.  A  nice 
house  is  all  very  well,  but  you  want  nice  people  too. 
Somebody  you  can  make  fun  of." 

"  B  darling,"  expostulated  the  Dragon  again.  "  I 
don't  think  j'ou  should  set  out  by  making  fun  of  people. 
You  will  want  to  make  friends  of  your  neighbours,  not 
fun  of  them." 

"  We  can  do  both,"  said  Beatrix.  "  Will  you  be  the 
Squire,  dear?  I  should  like  you  to  be  a  little  Squire. 
You'd  do  it  awfully  well,  better  than  Uncle  Jim." 

Sir  James  Grafton  was  George's  elder  brother,  and 
head  of  the  bank.  He  was  a  good  banker,  but  a  better 
chemist.     He  had  fitted  himself  up  a  laboratory  in  his 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  11 

country  house,  and  spent  as  much  of  his  time  in  it  as 
possible,  somewhat  to  the  detriment  of  his  duties  as 
a  landowner. 

"  It  will  be  great  fun  being  Squire's  daughters,"  said 
Caroline.  "  I'm  glad  we  are  going  to  have  a  house  of 
our  very  own.  When  you  only  take  them  for  a  month 
or  two  you  feel  like  a  Londoner  all  the  time.  B,  you 
and  I  will  become  dewy  English  girls.  I  believe  it  will 
suit  us." 

"I  don't  want  to  become  a  dewy  English  girl  just 
yet,"  said  Beatrix.  "  It's  all  very  well  for  you.  You've 
had  two  seasons.  Still,  I  shan't  mind  living  in  the  coun- 
try a  good  part  of  the  year.  There's  always  plenty  to 
do  there.  But  I  do  hope  there'll  be  a  nice  lot  of  people 
about.  Is  it  what  they  call  a  good  residential  neigh- 
bourhood. Daddy?  They  always  make  such  a  lot  of 
that." 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  Meadshire,"  said  Grafton. 
"  I  think  it's  a  trifle  stuffy.  People  one  never  sees, 
who  give  themselves  airs.  Still,  if  we  don't  like  them 
we  needn't  bother  ourselves  about  them.  We  can  get 
our  own  friends  down." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that's  the  right  spirit,"  said  Caro- 
line. "  I  want  to  do  the  thing  thoroughly.  The 
church  is  very  near  the  house,  isn't  it?  I  hope  we're 
not  right  in  the  middle  of  the  village  too.  You  want 
to  be  a  little  bj'  yourself  in  the  country." 

The  photographs,  indeed,  showed  the  church — a  fine 
square-towered  Early  English  structure — directly  op- 
posite the  front  door  of  the  house,  the  main  part  of 


12  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

which  was  late  Jacobean.  The  cloisters  and  the  old 
rambling  mediaeval  buildings  of  the  Abbey  were  around 
the  corner,  and  other  photographs  showed  them  delight- 
fully irregular  and  convincing.  But  the  gardens  and 
the  park  enclosed  it  all.  The  village  was  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away,  just  outside  one  of  the  Lodge  gates.  "  I 
asked  all  about  that,"  said  Grafton,  explaining  it  to 
them. 

They  gathered  round  the  tea-table  in  their  com- 
fortable luxurious  room, — a  happy  affectionate  family 
party.  Their  talk  was  all  of  the  new  departure  that 
was  at  last  to  be  made,  for  all  of  them  took  it  for 
granted  that  they  really  had  found  the  very  house  at 
last,  and  the  preliminary  visit  and  enquiries  and  nego- 
tiations were  not  likely  to  reveal  any  objections  or 
difficulties. 

George  Grafton  had  been  looking  for  a  country  house 
in  a  leisurely  kind  of  way  for  the  past  ten  years,  and 
with  rather  more  determination  for  about  two.  He  be- 
longed to  the  class  of  business  man  to  whom  it  is  as 
natural  to  have  a  country  house  as  to  have  a  London 
house,  not  only  for  convenience  in  respect  of  his  work, 
but  also  for  his  social  pleasures.  He  had  been  brought 
up  chiefly  in  the  country,  at  Frayne,  in  the  opulent 
Sevenoaks  region,  which  his  brother  now  inhabited.  He 
had  usually  taken  a  country  house  furnished  during 
some  part  of  the  year,  sometimes  on  the  river  for  the 
summer  months,  sometimes  for  the  winter,  with  a  shoot 
attached  to  it.  His  pleasures  were  largely  country 
pleasures.     And  his  children  liked  what  they  had  had 


THE  VERY  HOUSE  13 

of  country  life,  of  which  they  had  skimmed  the  cream, 
in  the  periods  they  had  spent  in  the  houses  that  he  had 
taken,  and  in  frequent  short  visits  to  those  of  friends 
and  relations.  In  the  dead  times  of  the  year  they 
had  come  back  to  London,  to  their  occupations  and 
amusements  there.  One  would  have  said  that  they  had 
had  the  best  of  both.  If  they  had  been  pure  Londoners 
by  birth  and  descent  no  doubt  they  would  have  had, 
and  been  well  content.  But  it  was  in  their  blood  on 
both  sides  to  want  that  mental  hold  over  a  country 
home,  which  houses  hired  for  a  few  months  at  a  time 
cannot  give.  None  of  the  houses  their  father  had  taken 
could  be  regarded  as  their  home.  Nor  could  a  house 
in  London,  however  spacious  and  homelike. 

They  talked  about  this  now,  over  the  tea-table.  "  It 
will  be  jolly  to  have  all  that  space  round  you  and  to 
feel  that  it  belongs  to  j'ou,"  said  Caroline.  "  I  shall 
love  to  go  out  in  the  morning  and  stroll  about,  without 
a  hat,  and  pick  flowers." 

"  And  watch  them  coming  up,"  said  Barbara. 
"  That's  what  I  shall  like.  And  not  having  always  to 
go  out  with  the  Dragon.  Of  course,  I  shall  generally 
want  you  to  come  with  me,  darling,  and  I  should  al- 
ways behave  exactly  as  if  you  were  there — naturally, 
as  I'm  a  good  girl.  But  I  expect  you  will  like  to  go 
out  b}'  yourself  sometimes  too,  without  one  of  the 
Graftons  always  hanging  to  you." 

"You'll  like  the  country,  won't  you,  dear?"  asked 
Beatrix.  "  I  think  you  must  go  about  with  a  key- 
basket,  and  feed  the  sparrows  after  breakfast." 


li  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country,"  said  Miss  Water- 
house.    "  I  shall  feel  more  at  home  there  than  j'ou  will." 

"  Your  mother  would  have  loved  the  garden,"  said 
Grafton.     "  She  alwaj's  missed  her  garden." 

"  Grandfather  sliowed  me  the  corner  she  had  at 
Frampton  when  she  was  little,"  said  Caroline. 
"  There's  an  oak  there  where  she  planted  an  acorn. 
It  takes  up  nearly  the  whole  of  it  now." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  asked  her  father.  "  I  never  knew 
that.    I  should  like  to  see  it." 

Caroline  described  the  spot  to  him.  "  Ah,  yes,"  he 
said,  "  I  do  remember  now ;  she  showed  it  me  herself 
when  we  were  engaged," 

"  Grandfather  showed  it  to  me  too,"  said  Beatrix. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Caroline  quickly.  "  You  were 
there." 

Their  mother  was  often  spoken  of  in  this  way,  nat- 
urally, and  not  with  any  sadness  or  regret.  Caroline 
remembered  her.  Beatrix  said  she  did,  and  was  in- 
clined to  be  a  little  jealous  of  Caroline's  memories. 

"  I  think  I'll  come  with  you  after  all,  to-morrow," 
said  Beatrix.    "  I  can  put  off  my  fencing  for  once." 

"  Yes,  do,  darling,"  said  Caroline.  "  You  and  I  and 
Dad  will  have  a  jolly  day  together." 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  VICAR 

The  Vicar  of  Abington  was  the  Reverend  A.  Salisbury 
Mercer  M.A.,  with  a  tendency  towards  hyphenation  of 
the  two  names,  though  the  more  resounding  of  them 
had  been  given  to  him  at  baptism  in  token  of  his 
father's  admiration  for  a  great  statesman.  He  was 
middle-sized,  but  held  himself  in  such  a  way  as  to  give 
the  impression  of  height,  or  at  least  of  dignity.  His 
dignity  was,  indeed,  dear  to  him,  and  his  chief  quarrel 
with  the  world,  in  which  he  had  otherwise  made  him- 
self very  comfortable,  was  that  there  were  so  many 
people  who  failed  to  recognise  it.  His  wife,  however, 
was  not  one  of  them.  She  thought  him  the  noblest  of 
men,  and  more  often  in  the  right  than  not.  He  was 
somewhere  in  the  early  fifties,  and  she  about  ten  years 
3'ounger.  She  was  a  nice  good-tempered  little  lady, 
inclined  to  easy  laughter,  but  not  getting  much  occa- 
sion for  it  in  her  home,  for  the  Reverend  A.  Salisbury 
Mercer  took  life  seriously,  as  became  a  man  of  his"  pro- 
fession. She  had  brought  him  money — not  a  great  deal 
of  money,  but  enough  to  give  him  a  well-appointed 
comfortable  home,  which  the  emoluments  of  Abington 
Vicarage  would  not  have  given  him  of  themselves.  In 
clerical   and   clerically-minded   society   he   was    accus- 

15 


16  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

tomed  to  complain  of  the  inequalities  of  such  emolu- 
ments in  the  Church  of  England.  "  Look  at  Abing- 
ton,"  he  would  say,  some  time  in  the  course  of  the  dis- 
cussion. "  There's  a  fine  church,  which  wants  a  good 
deal  of  keeping  up,  and  there's  a  good  house;  but  the 
value  of  the  living  has  come  down  to  about  a  hundred 
and  thirty  a  year.  No  man  without  private  means — 
considerable  private  means — could  possibly  afford  to 
take  it.  And  those  men  are  getting  scarcer  and  scarcer. 
After  me,  I  don't  know  what  will  happen  at  Abington." 

The  village  of  Abington  consisted  mainly  of  one 
broad  street  lined  on  either  side  with  red  brick  houses, 
cottages  and  little  shops.  The  Vicarage  was  a  good- 
sized  Georgian  house  which  abutted  right  on  to  the 
pavement,  and  had  cottages  built  against  it  on  one 
side  and  its  own  stable-yard  on  the  other.  The  Vicar 
was  often  inclined  to  complain  of  its  consequent  lack  of 
privacy,  but  the  fact  that  its  front  windows  provided 
an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  village  street,  and  what 
went  on  there,  went  a  good  way  towards  softening  the 
deprivation.  For  he  liked  to  know"  what  his  flock  were 
doing.  He  took  a  good  deal  of  responsibility  for  their 
actions. 

One  of  the  front  rooms  downstairs  was  the  study. 
The  Vicar's  writing-table  was  arranged  sideways  to 
the  window,  so  that  he  could  get  the  light  coming  from 
the  left  while  he  was  writing.  If  he  looked  up  he  had 
a  good  view  right  down  the  village  street,  which  took 
a  very  slight  turn  when  the  Vicarage  was  passed.  An- 
other reason  he  had  for  placing  his  table  in  this  posi- 


THE  VICAR  17 

tion  was  that  it  was  a  good  thing  for  liis  parishioners 
to  sec  him  at  work.  "  The  idea  that  a  clergyman's  life 
is  an  easy  one,"  he  would  say  to  any  one  who  might 
show  a  tendency  to  advance  or  even  to  hold  that  opin- 
ion, "  is  quite  wrong.  His  work  is  never  ended,  either 
within  or  without.  I  myself  spend  many  hours  a  day 
at  my  desk,  but  all  that  the  pubhc  sees  of  what  I  do 
there  is  represented  by  an  hour  or  two  in  church  during 
the  week." 

An  irrepressible  nephew  of  his  wife  engaged  in  Lon- 
don journalism,  to  whom  this  had  once  been  said  during 
a  week-end  visit,  had  replied :  "  Do  3'ou  mean  to  say, 
Uncle,  that  the  sermon  you  preached  this  morning  took 
you  hours  to  write  up.''  I  could  have  knocked  it  off  in 
half  an  hour,  and  then  I  should  have  had  most  of  it 
blue-pencilled." 

That  irreverent  young  man  had  not  been  asked  to  the 
house  again,  but  it  had  been  explained  to  him  that  ser- 
mon-writing was  not  the  chief  labour  of  a  parish  priest. 
He  had  a  great  deal  of  correspondence  to  get  through, 
and  he  had  to  keep  himself  up  in  contemporary  thought. 
The  Vicar,  indeed,  did  most  of  his  reading  sitting  at 
his  table,  with  his  head  propped  on  his  hand.  Few 
people  could  beat  him  in  his  knowledge  of  contemporary 
thought  as  infused  through  the  brains  of  such  writers 
as  Mr.  Philips  Oppenheim,  Mr.  Charles  Garvice,  and 
Mr.  William  le  Quex.  Women  writers  he  did  not  care 
for,  but  he  made  an  exception  in  favour  of  Mrs.  Flor- 
ence Barclay,  whose  works  he  judged  to  contain  the 
right  proportions  of  strength  and  feeling.     It  must  not 


18  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

be  supposed  that  he  was  at  all  ashamed  of  his  novel- 
reading,  as  some  foolish  people  are.  He  was  not 
ashamed  of  anything  that  he  did,  and,  as  for  novels, 
he  would  point  out  that  the  proper  study  of  mankind 
was  man,  and  that  next  to  studying  the  human  race 
for  yourself,  it  was  the  best  thing  to  read  the  works 
of  those  authors  who  had  trained  themselves  to  observe 
it.  Literature,  as  such,  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
If  you  wanted  literature  3'ou  could  not  have  anything 
finer  than  certain  parts  of  the  Old  Testament.  It  was 
hardly  worth  while  going  to  modern  authors  for  that. 
The  more  literature  there  was  in  a  modern  novel,  the 
less  human  nature  you  would  be  likely  to  find.  No ; 
it  would  generally  be  found  that  the  public  taste  was 
the  right  taste  in  these  matters,  whatever  people  who 
thought  themselves  superior  might  say.  He  himself 
claimed  no  superiority  in  such  matters.  He  supposed 
he  had  a  brain  about  as  good  as  the  average,  but 
what  was  good  enough  for  some  millions  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen  was  good  enough  for  him.  He  preferred 
to  leave  Mr.  Henry  James  to  others  who  thought  dif- 
ferently. 

The  "  Daily  Telegraph  "  came  by  the  second  post,  at 
about  twelve  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Mercer  was  accustomed 
to  bring  it  in  to  her  husband,  with  whatever  letters 
there  were  for  him  or  for  her.  She  liked  to  stay  and 
chat  with  him  for  a  time,  and  sometimes,  if  there  was 
anything  that  invited  discussion  in  her  letters,  he  would 
encourage  her  to  do  so.  But  he  generally  happened  to 
be  rather  particularly  busy  at  this  time,  not,  of  course, 


THE  VICAR  19 

with  novel-reading,  which  was  usually  left  till  a  later 
hour.  He  would  just  *  glance  through  the  paper  '  and 
then  she  njust  really  leave  him.  They  could  talk  about 
anything  that  wanted  talking  about  at  lunch.  He 
would  glance  through  the  paper  hurriedly  and  then  lay 
it  aside  and  return  to  his  writing;  but  when  she  had 
obediently  left  the  room  he  would  take  up  the  paper 
again.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  know  what  was 
going  on  in  the  world.  His  wife  never  took  the  paper 
away  with  her.  She  had  her  own  "  Daily  Mirror," 
which  he  despised  and  sometimes  made  her  ashamed  of 
reading,  but  never  to  the  extent  of  persuading  her  to 
give  it  up.  He  was  a  kind  husband,  and  seldom  let  a 
day  go  by  without  looking  through  it  himself,  out  of 
sympathy  with  her. 

On  this  March  morning  Mrs.  Mercer  brought  in  the 
"  Daily  Telegraph."  It  was  all  that  had  come  by  the 
post,  except  circulars,  with  which  she  never  troubled 
-him,  and  her  own  "  Daily  Mirror."  She  rather  par- 
ticularly wanted  to  talk  to  him,  as  he  had  come  home 
late  the  night  before  from  a  day  in  London,  and  had 
not  since  felt  inclined  to  tell  her  anything  about  it. 
Whether  she  would  have  succeeded  or  not  if  she  had  not 
come  upon  him  reading  a  novel  which  he  had  bought  the 
day  before  is  doubtful.  As  it  was,  he  did  not  send  her 
away  on  the  plea  of  being  particularly  busy. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  laying  the  book  decidedly  aside.  "  I 
was  just  looking  through  this.  It  is  so  good  that  I  am 
quite  looking  forward  to  reading  it  this  evening.  Well, 
what's  the  news  with  you,  my  dear.^  " 


20  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Little  Mrs.  Mercer  brightened.  She  knew  his  tones; 
and  he  was  so  nice  when  he  was  like  this.  "  It's  me 
that  ought  to  ask  what's  the  news  with  you,"  she  said. 
"  You  haven't  told  me  anything  of  what  you  did  or 
heard  yesterday." 

He  had  been  glancing  through  the  paper,  but  looked 
up.  "  There  is  one  thing  I  heard  that  may  interest 
you,"  he  said.  "  I  sat  next  to  a  man  at  lunch  at  the 
Club  and  got  into  conversation  with  him,  or  rather 
he  with  me,  and  when  it  came  out  that  I  was  Vicar  of 
Abington  he  said :  *  Is  that  the  Abington  in  Mead- 
shire.'*  '  and  when  I  said  yes  he  said:  '  I've  had  Abing- 
ton Abbey  on  my  books  for  a  long  time,  and  I  believe 
I've  let  it  at  last.'  He  was  a  House-Agent,  a  very 
respectable  fellow;  the  membership  of  a  club  like  that 
is  rather  mixed,  but  I  should  have  taken  him  for  a 
barrister  at  least,  except  that  he  had  seemed  anxious 
to  get  into  conversation  with  me." 

"  It's  like  that  in  trams  and  buses,"  said  Mrs. 
Mercer.  "  Anybody  who  starts  a  conversation  isn't 
generally  as  good  as  the  person  they  start  it  with." 

The  Vicar  let  this  pass.  "  He  told  me,"  he  said, 
*'  that  a  client  of  his — he  called  him  a  client — who  had 
been  looking  out  for  a  country  house  for  some  time 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  the  Abbey,  and  said  that  if  the 
photographs  represented  it  properly,  which  they  gen- 
erally didn't  when  j'ou  saw  the  place  itself,  and  every- 
tliing  else  turned  out  to  be  as  it  had  been  represented, 
he  thought  it  would  suit  him.  He  should  come  down 
and  look  at  it  very  soon." 


THE  VICAR  21 

"Wlio  is  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Mercer.     "Did  he  tell 


jou 


?  » 


"  He  did  not  toll  me  his  name.  He  said  he  was  a 
gentleman  in  the  City.  I  asked  the  name,  but  appar- 
ently it  isn't  etiquette  for  that  sort  of  people  to  give 
it.  Every  calling,  of  course,  has  its  own  conventions  in 
such  matters.  I  said  we  didn't  think  much  of  gentle- 
men in  the  City  in  this  part  of  the  world,  and  I  rather 
hoped  his  friend  would  find  that  the  place  did  not  suit 
him.  Some  of  us  were  not  particularly  rich,  but  we 
were  quite  content  as  we  were.  By  that  time  he  had 
become,  as  I  thought,  a  little  over-familiar,  which  is 
why  I  said  that." 

"  I  think  you  were  quite  right,  dear.  What  did  he 
say?  " 

"  Oh,  he  laughed.  He  had  finished  his  lunch  by  that 
time,  and  went  away  without  saying  a  word.  These 
half-gentlemen  always  break  down  in  their  manners 
somewhere." 

"  Anybody  who  could  buy  the  Abbey  must  be  pretty 
rich.  It  won't  be  a  bad  thing  for  the  parish  to  have 
somebody  with  money  in  it  again." 

"  No,  there  is  that.  Anybody  meaner  than  Mr. 
Compton-Brett  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  We 
could  hardly  be  worse  off  in  that  respect  than  we  are  at 
present." 

Mr.  Compton-Brett  was  the  owner  of  Abington 
Abbey,  with  the  acreage  attached  thereto,  and  the 
advowson  that  went  with  it.  He  was  a  rich  bachelor, 
who  lived  the  life  of  a  bookish  recluse  in  chambers  in 


22  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

the  Albany.  He  had  inherited  Abington  from  a  dis- 
tant relation,  and  only  visited  it  under  extreme  pres- 
sure, about  once  a  year.  He  refused  to  let  it,  and  had 
also  refused  many  advantageous  offers  to  sell.  A  buyer 
must  accept  his  terms  or  leave  it  alone.  They  included 
the  right  of  presentation  to  the  living  of  Abington  at 
its  full  actuarial  value,  and  he  would  not  sell  the  right 
separately.  Rich  men  who  don't  want  money  allow 
themselves  these  luxuries  of  decision.  It  must  amuse 
them  in  some  way,  and  they  probably  need  amusement. 
For  a  man  who  can't  get  it  out  of  dealing  with  more 
money  than  will  provide  for  his  personal  needs  must  be 
lacking  in  imagination. 

"  I  hope  they  will  be  nice  people  to  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Mercer,  "  and  won't  give  themselves  airs." 

"  They  won't  give  themselves  airs  over  me  twice," 
replied  her  husband  loftily.  "  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
these  new  rich  people  who  buy  country  places  are 
often  glad  to  have  somebody  to  advise  them.  For  all 
their  money  they  are  apt  to  make  mistakes." 

"Are  they  new  people?  Did  the  House-Agent  say 
that.?" 

"  Well,  no.  But  it's  more  likely  than  not.  '  A  gen- 
tleman in  the  City,'  he  said.  That  probably  means 
somebody  who  has  made  a  lot  of  money  and  wants  to 
blossom  out  as  a  gentleman  in  the  country." 

Mrs.  Mercer  laughed  at  this,  as  it  seemed  to  be 
expected  of  her.  "  I  hope  he  will  be  a  gentleman," 
she  said.  "  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  lady  too,  and 
perhaps  a  family.    It  will  be  rather  nice  to  have  some- 


THE  VICAR  23 

body  living  at  the  Abbey.  We  are  not  too  well  off  for 
nice  neighbours." 

*'  I  should  think  we  are  about  as  badly  off  as  any- 
body can  be,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  There  is  not  a  soul  in 
the  village  itself  who  is  any  good  to  anybody  except,  of 
course,  Mrs.  Walter  and  Mollie;  and  as  for  the  people 
round — well,  you  know  yourself  that  a  set  of  people 
more  difficult  to  get  on  with  it  would  be  impossible 
to  find  anywhere.  I  am  not  a  quarrelsome  man.  Ex- 
cept where  my  sacred  calling  is  in  question,  my  motto 
is  *  Live  and  let  live.'  But  the  people  about  us  here 
will  not  do  that.  Each  one  of  them  seems  to  want  to 
quarrel.  I  sincerely  hope  that  these  new  people  at  the 
Abbey  will  not  want  that.     If  they  do,  well " 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not,"  said  little  Mrs.  Mercer  hastily. 
"  I  do  hope  we  shall  all  be  good  friends,  especially  if 
there  is  a  nice  family.  Whoever  buys  the  Abbey  will 
be  your  patron,  won't  he,  dear.''  Mr.  Worthing  has 
often  told  us  that  Mr.  Compton-Brett  won't  sell  the 
property  without  selling  the  patronage  of  the  living." 

"  Whoever  buys  the  property  will  have  the  future 
right  to  present  to  this  living,"  replied  the  Vicar.  "  He 
will  have  no  more  right  of  patronage  over  me  than  any- 
body else.  If  there  is  likely  to  be  any  doubt  about 
that  I  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  of  making  it 
plain." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  there  won't  be,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer. 
"  I  only  meant  that  he  would  be  patron  of  the  living ; 
not  that  he  would  have  any  authority  over  the  present 
incumbent.    Of  course,  I  know  he  wouldn't  have  that." 


24.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  You  know  It,  my  dear,  because  you  are  In  the  way 
of  knowing  such  elementary  facts.  But  It  is  extraordi- 
nary what  a  large  number  of  people  are  Ignorant  of 
them.  A  rich  self-made  City  man,  with  not  much  edu- 
cation behind  him,  perhaps  not  even  a  churchman.  Is 
just  the  sort  of  person  to  be  ignorant  of  such  things. 
He  is  quite  likely  to  think  that  because  he  has  bought 
the  right  to  present  to  a  living  he  has  also  bought  the 
right  to  domineer  over  the  incumbent.  It  Is  what  the 
rich  Dissenters  do  over  their  ministers.  If  this  new 
man  is  a  Dissenter,  as  he  Is  quite  likely  to  be  if  he  is 
anything  at  all,  he  will  be  almost  certain  to  take  that 
view.  Well,  as  I  say,  I  am  a  man  of  peace,  but  I 
know  where  I  stand,  and  for  the  sake  of  my  office  I 
shall  not  budge  an  inch." 

The  Vicar  breathed  heavily.  Mrs.  Mercer  felt 
vaguely  distressed.  Her  husband  was  quite  right,  of 
course.  There  did  seem  to  be  a  sort  of  conspiracy  all 
round  them  to  refuse  him  the  recognition  of  his  claims, 
which  were  only  those  he  felt  himself  bound  to  make  as 
a  beneficed  priest  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  for 
the  honour  of  the  Church  Itself.  Still,  the  recognition 
of  such  claims  had  not  as  yet  been  actually  denied  him 
from  this  new-comer,  whose  very  name  they  did  not  yet 
know.  It  seemed  to  be  settled  that  he  was  self-made, 
ignorant  and  in  all  probability  a  Dissenter;  but  he 
might  be  quite  nice  all  the  same,  and  his  family  still 
nicer.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  look  for  trouble  before  it 
came.  They  hadn't,  as  It  was  admitted  between  them, 
too  many   friends,  and  she  did  like   to   have   friends. 


THE  VICAR  25 

Even  among  the  people  round  them  whom  it  was  awk- 
ward to  meet  in  the  road  there  were  some  whom  she 
would  have  been  quite  glad  to  be  on  friendly  terms  with 
again,  in  spite  of  the  way  they  had  behaved  to  her 
husband. 

She  was  preparing  to  say  in  an  encouraging  manner 
something  to  the  effect  that  people  were  generally  nicer 
than  they  appeared  to  be  at  first  sight.  Her  husband 
would  almost  certainly  have  replied  that  the  exact  con- 
trary was  the  case,  and  brought  forward  instances 
known  to  them  both  to  prove  it.  So  it  was  just  as  well 
that  there  was  a  diversion  at  this  moment.  It  took  the 
form  of  a  large  opulent-looking  motor-car,  which  was 
passing  slowly  down  the  village  street,  driven  by  a 
smart-looking  uniformed  chauffeur,  while  a  middle-aged 
man  and  a  young  girl  sat  behind  and  looked  about  them 
enquiringly  on  either  side.  They  were  George  Grafton 
and  Caroline,  who  supposed  that  they  had  reached  the 
village  of  Abington  by  this  time,  but  were  as  yet  un- 
certain of  the  whereabouts  of  the  Abbey.  At  that  mo- 
ment a  question  was  being  put  by  the  chauffeur  to  one 
of  the  Vicar's  parishioners  on  the  pavement.  He  re- 
plied to  it  with  a  pointing  finger,  and  the  car  slid  off 
at  a  faster  pace  down  the  street. 

"  That  must  be  them !  "  said  Mrs.  Mercer  in  some  ex- 
citement. "  They  do  look  nice,  Albert — quite  gentle- 
people,  I  must  say." 

The  Vicar  had  also  gathered  that  it  must  be  *  them,' 
and  was  as  favourably  impressed  b}'  their  appearance 
as  his  wife.     But  it  was  not  his  way  to  take  any  opin- 


26  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

ion  from  her,  or  even  to  appear  to  do  so.  "  If  it  is 
our  gentleman  from  the  City,"  he  said,  "  he  would  cer- 
tainly be  rich  enough  to  make  that  sort  of  appearance. 
But  I  should  think  it  is  ver}^  unlikely.  However,  I 
shall  probably  find  out  if  it  is  he,  as  I  must  go  up  to 
the  church.     I'll  tell  you  when  I  come  back." 

She  did  not  ask  if  she  might  go  with  him,  although 
she  must  have  known  well  enough  that  his  visit  to  the 
church  had  been  decided  on,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
so  that  he  might  get  just  that  opportunity  for  investi- 
gation of  which  she  herself  would  frankly  have  ac- 
knowledged she  was  desirous.  He  would  have  rebuked 
her  for  her  prying  disposition,  and  declined  her  com- 
pany. 

He  went  out  at  once,  and  she  watched  him  walk 
quickly  down  the  village  street,  his  head  and  body  held 
very  stiff — a  pompous  man,  a  self-indulgent  man,  an 
ignorant  self-satisfied  man,  but  her  lord  and  master, 
and  with  some  qualities,  mostly  hidden  from  others, 
which  caused  her  to  admire  him. 


CHAPTER    III 
THE  FIRST  VISIT 

The  Vicar  was  in  luck,  if  what  he  really  wanted  was 
an  opportunity  of  introducing  himself  to  the  new- 
comers. At  the  end  of  the  village  the  high  stone  wall 
which  enclosed  the  park  of  the  Abbey  began,  and  curved 
away  to  the  right.  The  entrance  was  by  a  pair  of  fine 
iron  gates  flanked  by  an  ancient  stone  lodge.  A  little 
further  on  was  a  gate  in  the  wall,  which  led  to  a  path 
running  across  the  park  to  the  church.  When  he  came 
in  view  of  the  entrance  the  car  was  standing  in  front 
of  the  gates,  and  its  occupants  were  just  alighting 
from  it  to  make  their  way  to  the  smaller  gate. 

The  Vicar  hurried  up  to  them  and  took  off  his  hat. 
"Are  you  trying  to  get  in  to  the  Abbey?"  he  said. 
"  The  people  of  the  lodge  ought  to  be  there  to  open 
the  gates." 

Grafton  turned  to  him  with  his  pleasant  smile. 
"  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anybody  there,"  he  said. 
"  We  thought  we'd  go  in  by  this  gate,  and  my  man 
could  go  and  see  if  he  could  get  the  keys  of  the  house. 
We  want  to  look  over  it." 

"  But  the  lodge-keeper  certainly  ought  to  be  there," 
said  the  Vicar,  and  hurried  back  to  the  larger  gate, 

27 


28  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

at  which  he  lifted  up  his  voice  in  accents  of  command. 
"  Mrs.  Roeband  !  "  he  called,  "  Mrs.  Roeband  !  Roe- 
band!!  Where  are  you  all.'*  I'm  afraid  they  must  be 
out,  sir." 

"  Yes,  I'm  afraid  they  must,"  said  Grafton.  "  But 
please  don't  bother  about  it.  Perhaps  you  could  tell 
my  man  where  to  get  the  keys." 

"  They  ought  not  to  leave  the  place  like  this,"  said 
the  Vicar  in  an  annoyed  voice.  "  It's  quite  wrong ; 
quite  wrong.  I  must  find  out  the  reason  for  it.  I  think 
the  best  way,  sir,  would  be  for  your  man  to  go  to  the 
Estate  Office.     I'll  tell  him." 

He  gave  directions  to  the  chauffeur,  while  Grafton 
and  Caroline  stood  by,  stealing  a  glance  at  one  another 
as  some  slight  failure  on  the  chauffeur's  part  to  under- 
stand him  caused  the  Vicar's  voice  to  be  raised  im- 
patiently. 

It  was  a  sweet  and  mild  March  day,  but  the  long 
fast  drive  had  chilled  them  both  in  spite  of  their  furs. 
Caroline's  pretty  face  looked  almost  that  of  a  child 
with  its  fresh  colour,  but  her  long  fur  coat,  very  ex- 
pensive even  to  the  eye  of  the  uninitiated,  and  the  veil 
she  wore,  made  the  Vicar  take  her  for  the  young  wife 
of  the  *  gentleman  from  the  City,'  as  he  turned  again 
towards  them,  especially  as  she  had  slipped  her  arm 
into  her  father's  as  they  stood  waiting,  and  was  evi- 
dently much  attached  to  him.  Grafton  himself  looked 
younger  than  his  years,  with  his  skin  freshened  by  the 
cold  and  his  silver  hair  hidden  under  his  cap.  "  A 
newly  married  couple,"  thought  the  Vicar,  now  ready 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  29 

to  put  himself  at  their  service  and  do  the  honours  of  the 
place  that  they  had  come  to  sec. 

"  It  isn't  far  to  walk  to  the  Abbey,"  he  said.  "  You 
will  save  time.     I  will  show  you  the  way." 

He  led  them  through  the  gate,  and  they  found  them- 
selves in  a  beechy  glade,  with  great  trees  rising  on  either 
side  of  the  hollow,  and  a  little  herd  of  deer  grazing  not 
far  from  the  path. 

Caroline  exclaimed  in  delight.  "  Oh,  how  topping !  " 
she  said.     "  You  didn't  tell  me  there  were  deer,  Dad." 

"  Oh,  father  and  daughter !  "  the  Vicar  corrected 
himself.     "  I  wonder  where  the  wife  is !  " 

"  I  had  better  introduce  myself,"  he  said  affably, 
as  they  walked  through  the  glade  together.  "  Salisbury 
Mercer  my  name  is.  I'm  the  Vicar  of  the  parish,  as 
I  dare  say  you  have  gathered.  We  have  been  without 
a  resident  Squire  here  for  some  years.  Naturally  a 
great  deal  of  responsibility  rests  upon  me,  some  of 
which  I  shouldn't  be  altogether  sorry  to  be  relieved  of. 
I  hope  you  are  thinking  of  acquiring  the  place,  sir,  and 
if  you  are  that  it  will  suit  you.  I  should  be  very  glad 
to  see  the  Abbey  occupied  again." 

"  Well,  it  seems  as  if  it  might  be  the  place  for  us," 
said  Grafton.  "  We're  going  to  have  a  good  look  at 
it  anyhow.     How  long  has  it  been  empty?  " 

"  Mr.  Compton-Brett  inherited  it  about  six  years 
ago.  He  comes  down  occasionally,  but  generally  shuts 
himself  up  when  he  does.  He  isn't  much  use  to  any- 
body. An  old  couple  lived  here  before  him — his  cousins. 
They  weren't  much  use  to  anybody  either — very  can- 


30  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

tankcrous  both  of  them.  Although  the  old  man  had 
presented  me  to  the  living — on  the  advice  of  the  bishop 
— a  year  before  he  died,  he  set  himself  against  me  in 
every  way  here,  and  actually  refused  to  see  me  when 
he  was  dying.  The  old  lady  was  a  little  more  amenable 
afterwards,  and  I  was  with  her  at  the  last — she  died 
within  six  months.  But  you  see  I  have  not  been  very 
fortunate  here  so  far.  That  is  why  I  am  anxious  that 
the  right  sort  of  people  should  have  the  place.  A 
clergyman's  work  is  difficult  enough  without  having 
complications  of  that  sort  added  to  it." 

"  Well,  I  hope  we  shall  be  the  right  sort  of  people 
if  we  do  come,"  said  Grafton  genially.  "  You'll  like 
going  about  visiting  the  poor,  won't  you,  Cara.''  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Caroline.  "  I've  never  tried 
it." 

The  Vicar  looked  at  her  critically.  He  did  not  quite 
like  her  tone;  and  so  young  a  girl  as  she  now  showed 
herself  to  be  should  not  have  been  looking  away  from 
him  with  an  air  almost  of  boredom.  But  she  was  a 
*  lady  ' ;  that  was  quite  evident  to  him.  She  walked 
with  her  long  coat  thrown  open,  showing  her  beauti- 
fully cut  tweed  coat  and  skirt  and  her  neat  country 
boots — country  boots  from  Bond  Street,  or  there- 
abouts. A  very  well-dressed,  very  pretty  girl — really 
a  remarkably  pretty  girl  when  you  came  to  look  at 
her,  though  off-hand  in  her  manners  and  no  doubt 
rather  spoilt.  The  Vicar  had  an  e3'e  for  a  pretty  girl 
— as  the  shape  of  his  mouth  and  chin  might  have  in- 
dicated to  an  acute  observer.     Perhaps   it  might  be 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  31 

worth  while  to  make  himself  pleasant  to  this  one.  The 
hard  lot  of  vicars  is  sometimes  alleviated  by  the  devo- 
tion of  the  younger  female  members  of  their  flock,  in 
whom  they  can  take  an  affectionate  and  fatherly,  or 
at  least  avuncular,  interest. 

"  There  isn't  much  actual  visiting  of  the  poor  as 
poor  in  a  parish  like  this,"  he  said.  "  It  isn't  like  a 
district  in  London.  But  I'm  sure  a  lot  of  the  cottagers 
will  like  to  see  you  when  you  get  to  know  them."  He 
had  thought  of  adding  *  my  dear,'  but  cut  it  out  of 
his  address  as  Caroline  turned  her  clear  uninterested 
gaze  upon  them. 

"  Oh,  of  course  I  shall  hope  to  get  to  know  some  of 
them  as  friends,"  she  said,  "  if  we  come  here.  Oh,  look, 
Dad.     Isn't  it  ripping?  " 

The  wide  two-storied  front  of  the  house  stood  re- 
vealed to  them  at  the  end  of  another  vista  among  the 
beeches.  It  stood  on  a  level  piece  of  ground  with  the 
church  just  across  the  road  which  ran  past  it.  The 
churchyard  was  surrounded  by  a  low  stone  wall,  and 
the  grass  of  the  park  came  right  up  to  it.  The  front 
of  the  house  was  regular,  with  a  fine  doorway  in  the 
middle,  and  either  end  slightly  advanced.  But  on  the 
nearer  side  a  long  line  of  ancient  irregular  buildings 
ran  back  and  covered  more  ground  than  the  front  it- 
self. They  were  faced  by  a  lawn  contained  within  a 
sunk  fence.  The  main  road  through  the  park  ran  along 
one  side  of  it,  and  along  the  other  was  a  road  leading 
to  stables  and  back  premises.  This  lawn  was  of  con- 
siderable size,  but  had  no  garden  decoration  except  an 


32  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

ancient  sun-dial.  It  made  a  beautiful  setting  for  the 
little  old  stone  and  red-brick  and  red-tiled  buildings 
which  seemed  to  have  been  strung  out  with  no  design, 
and  yet  made  a  perfect  and  entrancing  whole.  Tall 
trees,  amongst  which  showed  the  sombre  tones  of  deo- 
dars and  yews,  rising  above  and  behind  the  roofs  and 
chimneys,  showed  the  gardens  to  be  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  look  at  the  church 
first,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  while  the  keys  are  being  fetched. 
It  is  well  worth  seeing.  We  are  proud  of  our  church 
here.  And  if  I  may  say  so  it  will  be  a  great  convenience 
to  you  to  have  it  so  close." 

Caroline  was  all  eagerness  to  see  what  there  was  to 
be  seen  of  this  entrancing  house,  even  before  the  keys 
came.  She  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  spend  time  over 
the  church  at  this  stage.  Nor  did  her  father.  But 
this  Vicar  seemed  to  have  taken  possession  of  them. 
They  both  began  to  wonder  how,  if  ever,  they  were  to 
shake  him  off,  and  intimated  the  same  by  mutual 
glances  as  he  unlocked  the  door  of  the  church,  ex- 
plaining that  he  did  not  keep  it  open  while  the  house 
was  empty,  as  it  was  so  far  from  everywhere,  but  that 
he  should  be  pleased  to  do  so  when  the  Abbey  was  once 
more  occupied.  He  was  quite  at  his  ease  now,  and 
rather  enjoying  himself.  The  amenity  which  the  two 
of  them  had  shewn  in  following  him  into  the  church 
inclined  him  to  the  belief  that  they  would  be  easy  to 
get  on  with  and  to  direct  in  the  paths  that  lay  within 
his  domain.     He  had  dropped  his  preformed  ideas  of 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  33 

them.  They  were  not  '  new,'  nor  half-educated,  and 
obviously  the}'  couldn't  be  Dissenters.  But  Londoners 
they  had  been  announced  to  be,  and  he  still  took  it 
for  granted  that  they  would  want  a  good  deal  of 
shepherding.  Well,  that  was  what  he  was  there  for, 
and  it  would  be  quite  a  pleasant  task,  with  people 
obviously  so  well  endowed  with  this  world's  goods,  and 
able  to  give  something  in  return  that  would  redound  to 
the  dignity  of  the  church,  and  his  as  representing  it. 
His  heart  warmed  to  them  as  he  pointed  out  what  there 
was  of  interest  in  the  ancient  well-preserved  building, 
and  indicated  now  and  then  the  part  they  would  be 
expected  to  play  in  the  activities  that  lay  within  his 
province  to  direct. 

"  Those  will  be  your  pews,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
chancel.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them  filled  again  regu- 
larly. It  will  be  a  good  example  to  the  villagers.  And 
I  shall  have  you  under  my  own  eye,  you  see,  from  my 
reading-desk  opposite." 

This  was  said  to  Caroline,  in  a  tone  that  meant  a 
pleasantry,  and  invited  one  in  return.  She  again  met 
his  smile  with  a  clear  unconcerned  look,  and  wondered 
when  the  keys  of  the  house  would  come,  and  they 
would  be  relieved  of  this  tiresome  person. 

The  car  was  heard  outside  at  that  moment,  and 
Grafton  said :  "  Well,  thank  you  very  much.  We 
mustn't  keep  you  any  longer.  Yes,  it's  a  fine  old 
church;  I  hope  we  shall  know  it  better  by  and  by." 

He  never  went  to  church  in  London,  and  seldom  in 
the  country,  and  had  not  thought  of  becoming  a  regu- 


34$  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

lar  churchgoer  if  lie  should  buy  Abington.  But  the 
girls  and  Miss  Waterhouse  would  go  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings and  he  would  occupy  the  chancel  pew  with  them 
occasionally.  He  meant  no  more  than  that,  but  the 
Vicar  put  him  down  gratefully  as  probably  '  a  keen 
churchman,'  and  his  heart  warmed  to  him  still  further. 
An  incumbent's  path  was  made  so  much  easier  if  his 
Squire  backed  him  up,  and  it  made  such  a  tie  between 
them.  It  would  be  a  most  pleasant  state  of  things  if 
there  was  real  sympathy  and  community  of  interest 
between  the  Vicarage  and  the  great  house.  He  knew 
of  Rectories  and  Vicarages  in  which  the  Squire  of  the 
parish  was  never  seen,  with  the  converse  disadvantage 
that  the  rector  or  vicar  was  never  seen  in  the  Squire's 
house.  Evidently  nothing  of  the  sort  was  to  be  feared 
here.  He  would  do  all  he  could  to  create  a  good  under- 
standing at  the  outset.  As  for  leaving  these  nice  people 
to  make  their  way  about  the  Abbey  with  only  the  lodge- 
keeper's  wife,  now  arrived  breathless  and  apologetic  on 
the  scene,  it  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  He  would  rather 
lose  his  lunch  than  forsake  them  at  this  stage. 

It  was  in  fact  nearly  lunch  time.  Grafton,  hitherto 
so  amenable  to  suggestion,  exercised  decision.  "  We 
have  brought  a  luncheon-basket  with  us,"  he  said, 
standing  before  the  door  of  the  house,  which  the  lodge- 
keeper  was  unlocking.  "  We  shall  picnic  somewhere 
here  before  we  look  over  the  house.  So  I'll  say  good- 
bye, and  thank  you  very  much  indeed  for  all  the  trouble 
you've  taken." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  the  Vicar  was  not  ready 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  35 

to  take  it  yet,  though  dismissal,  for  the  present,  he 
would  take,  under  the  circumstances.  "  Oh,  but  I 
can't  say  good-bye  like  this,"  he  said.  "  I  feel  I  haven't 
done  half  enough  for  you.  There's  such  a  lot  you  may 
want  to  know  about  things  in  general,  your  new  neigh- 
bours and  so  on.  Couldn't  you  both  come  to  tea  at 
the  Vicarage.''  I'm  sure  my  wife  would  be  very  pleased 
to  make  your  acquaintance,  and  that  of  this  young 
lady." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Grafton.  "  But  it 
will  take  us  some  hours  to  get  back  to  London,  and  we 
don't  want  to  get  there  much  after  dark.  We  shall 
have  to  start  fairly  early." 

But  the  Vicar  would  take  no  denial.  Tea  could  be 
as  early  as  they  liked — three  o'clock,  if  that  would 
suit  them.  Really,  he  must  insist  upon  their  coming. 
So  they  had  to  promise,  and  at  last  he  took  himself  off. 

The  house  was  a  joy  to  them  both.  They  got  rid 
of  the  lodge-keeper,  who  was  anxious  to  go  home  and 
prepare  her  husband's  dinner.  She  was  apologetic  at 
having  been  away  from  her  lodge,  but  explained  that 
she  had  only  been  down  to  the  Estate  office  to  draw  her 
money. 

"Is  there  a  regular  Agent.''"  asked  Grafton.  "If 
so,  I  should  like  to  see  him  before  I  go." 

She  explained  that  Mr.  Worthing  was  agent  both 
for  Abington  and  Wilborough,  Sir  Alexander  Man- 
sergh's  place,  which  adjoined  it.  He  lived  at  High 
Wood  Farm  about  a  mile  awa3\  He  wasn't  so  often 
at  Abington   as   at   Wilborough,  but   could   be   sum- 


36  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

moned  by  telephone  if  he  was  wanted.  Grafton  asked 
her  to  get  a  message  to  him,  and  she  left  them  alone. 

Then  they  started  their  investigations,  while  the 
chauffeur  laid  out  lunch  for  them  on  a  table  in  the 
hall. 

The  hall  was  large  and  stone-floored,  and  took  up 
the  middle  part  of  the  later  regular  building.  The  sun 
streamed  into  it  obliquely  through  tall  small-paned 
windows  at  this  hour  of  the  day ;  otherwise  it  had  the 
air  of  being  rather  sombre,  with  its  cumbrous  dark- 
coloured  furniture.  There  was  a  great  fire-place  at 
one  end  of  it,  with  a  dark  almost  indecipherable  can- 
vas over  it.  It  was  not  a  hall  to  sit  about  in,  except 
perhaps  in  the  height  of  summer,  for  the  front  door 
opened  straight  into  it,  and  the  inner  hall  and  stair- 
case opened  out  of  it  without  doors  or  curtains.  A 
massive  oak  table  took  up  a  lot  of  room  in  the  middle, 
and  there  were  ancient  oak  chairs  and  presses  and 
benches  disposed  stiffly  against  the  walls. 

"  Doesn't  it  smell  good,"  said  Caroline.  "  Rather 
like  graves ;  but  the  nicest  sort  of  graves.  It's  rather 
dull,  though.  I  suppose  this  furniture  is  very  valuable. 
It  looks  as  if  it  ought  to  be." 

Grafton  looked  a  little  doubtful.  "  I  suppose  we'd 
better  have  it,  if  they  don't  want  a  terrific  price,"  he 
said.  "  It's  the  right  sort  of  thing,  no  doubt ;  but  I'd 
rather  have  a  little  less  of  it.  Let's  go  and  see  if 
there's  another  room  big  enough  to  get  some  fun  out 
of.  What  about  the  long  gallery.''  I  wonder  where 
that  is." 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  37 

They  found  it  on  the  side  of  the  house  opposite  to 
that  from  which  they  had  first  approached  it — a  de- 
lightful oak-panelled  oak-floored  room  with  a  long  row 
of  latticed  windows  looking  out  on  to  a  delicious  old- 
world  garden,  all  clipped  yews  and  shaven  turf  and 
ordered  beds,  with  a  backing  of  trees  and  an  invitation 
to  more  delights  beyond,  in  the  lie  of  the  grass  and 
flagged  paths,  and  the  arched  and  arcaded  yews.  It 
was  big  enough  to  take  the  furniture  of  three  or  four 
good-sized  rooms  and  make  separate  groupings  of  it, 
although  what  furniture  there  was,  was  disposed  stiffly, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  what  a  heavenly  room !  "  Caroline  exclaimed. 
"  I  can  see  it  at  a  glance,  George  darling.  We'll  keep 
nearly  all  this  furniture,  and  add  to  it  chintzy  sofas 
and  easy  chairs.  A  grand  piano  up  at  that  end.  Won't 
it  be  jolly  to  have  all  the  flowers  we  want?  I  suppose 
there  are  hot-houses  for  the  winter.  You  won't  have 
any  excuse  for  accusing  me  of  extravagance  about 
flowers  any  longer,  darling." 

She  babbled  on  delightedly.  The  sun  threw  the  pat- 
terns of  the  latticed  windows  on  the  dark  and  polished 
oak  floor.  She  opened  one  of  the  casements,  and  let 
in  the  soft  sweet  spring  air.  The  birds  were  singing 
gaily  in  the  garden.  "  It's  all  heavenly,"  she  said. 
"  This  room  sums  it  up.  Oh,  why  does  anybody  live  in 
a  town  ?  " 

Her  father  was  hardly  less  pleased  than  she.  Ex- 
cept for  the  blow  dealt  him  fifteen  years  before  by  the 
death  of  his  wife,  the  fates  had  been  very  kind  to  him. 


38  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

The  acuteness  of  that  sorrow  had  long  since  passed 
away,  and  tlic  tenderness  in  his  nature  had  diffused 
itself  over  the  children  that  her  love  had  given  him. 
The  satisfaction  of  his  life — his  successful  work,  his 
friendships,  his  pastimes,  the  numerous  interests  which 
no  lack  of  money  or  opportunity  ever  prevented  his 
following  up — were  all  sweetened  to  him  by  the  affec- 
tion and  devotion  that  was  his  m  his  home.  And  his 
home  was  the  best  of  all  the  good  things  in  his  life. 
It  came  to  him  now,  as  he  stood  by  the  window  with  his 
daughter, — the  beautiful  spacious  room  which  they 
would  adapt  to  their  happy  life  on  one  side  of  him,  the 
peaceful  sunlit  bird-haunted  charm  of  the  garden  on 
the  other, — that  this  new  setting  would  heighten  and 
centralise  the  sweet  intimacies  of  their  home  life. 
Abington  Abbey  would  be  much  more  to  them  than  an 
increase  of  opportunities  for  enjoyment.  It  would  be 
the  warm  nest  of  their  love  for  one  another,  as  no  house 
in  a  city  could  be.  He  was  not  a  particularly  demon- 
strative man,  though  he  had  caresses  for  his  children, 
and  would  greatly  have  missed  their  pretty  demonstra- 
tions of  affection  for  him ;  but  he  loved  them  dearly, 
and  found  no  society  as  pleasant  as  theirs.  There 
would  be  a  great  deal  of  entertaining  at  Abington 
Abbey,  but  the  happiest  hours  spent  there  would  be 
those  of  family  life. 

They  lunched  in  the  big  hall,  with  the  door  wide  open, 
the  sun  coming  in  and  the  stillness  of  the  country  and 
the  empty  house  all  about  them.  Then  they  made  their 
detailed   investigations.      It   was    all   just   what   they 


THE  FIRST  VISIT  39 

wanted — some  big  rooms  and  many  fascinating  small 
ones.  The  furniture  was  the  usual  mixture  to  be  found 
in  old-established,  long-inhabited  houses.  Some  of  it 
was  very  fine,  some  of  it  very  ordinary.  But  there  was 
an  air  about  the  whole  house  that  could  not  have  been 
created  by  new  furnishing,  however  carefully  it  might 
be  done.  Caroline  saw  it.  "  I  think  we'd  better  leave 
it  alone  as  much  as  possible,"  she  said.  "  We  can  get 
what  we  want  extra  for  comfort,  and  add  to  the  good 
things  here  and  there.  We  don't  want  to  make  it  look 
new,  do  we  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,  darling,"  said  her  father.  "  It's 
your  show.  We  can  string  it  up  a  bit  where  it's 
shabby,  and  make  it  comfortable  and  convenient. 
Otherwise  it  will  do  all  right.  I  don't  want  it  too 
smart.  We're  going  to  be  country  people  here,  not 
Londoners  in  the  country." 

They  wandered  about  the  gardens.  It  was  just  that 
time  of  year,  and  just  the  day,  in  which  spring  seems 
most  visibly  and  blessedly  coming.  The  crocuses  were 
in  masses  of  purple  and  gold,  violets  and  primroses 
and  hepaticas  bloomed  shyly  in  sheltered  corners,  daf- 
fodils were  beginning  to  lower  their  buds  and  show  yel- 
low at  their  tips.  They  took  as  much  interest  in  the 
garden  as  in  the  house.  It  was  to  be  one  of  their 
delights.  They  had  the  garden  taste,  and  some  knowl- 
edge, as  many  Londoners  of  their  sort  have.  They 
made  plans,  walking  along  the  garden  paths,  Caroline's 
arm  slipped  affectionately  into  her  father's.  This 
was  to  be  their  garden  to  play  with,  which  is  a  very 


40  ABIXGTON  ABBEY 

different  thing  from  admiring  other  people's  gardens, 
however  beautiful  and  interesting  they  may  be. 

"  George  darling,  I  don't  think  we  can  miss  all  this 
in  the  spring  and  early  summer,"  said  Caroline.  "  Let's 
get  into  the  house  as  soon  as  we  can,  and  cut  all  the 
tiresome  London  parties  altogether." 


CHAPTER    IV 

NEIGHBOURS 

They  were  standing  by  one  of  the  old  monks'  fish 
stews,  which  made  such  a  charming  feature  of  the  yew- 
set  formal  garden,  when  a  step  was  heard  on  the  path 
and  they  turned  to  see  a  cheerful-looking  gentleman 
approaching  them,  with  a  smile  of  welcome  on  his 
handsome  features.  He  was  a  tall  man  of  middle-age, 
dressed  in  almost  exaggerated  country  fashion,  in 
rough  home-spun,  very  neat  about  the  gaitered  legs, 
and  was  followed  by  a  bull-dog  of  ferocious  but  en- 
dearing aspect.  "  Ah !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  loud  and 
breezy  voice  as  he  approached  them,  "  I  thought  it 
must  be  you  when  I  saw  your  name  on  the  order.  If 
you've  forgotten  me  I  shall  never  forgive  you." 

Grafton  was  at  a  loss  for  a  moment.  Then  his  face 
cleared.  "  Jimmy  Worthing,"  he  said.  "  Of  course. 
They  did  mention  your  name.  Cara,  this  is  Mr.  Worth- 
ing. We  were  at  school  together  a  hundred  years  or 
so  ago.     My  eldest  daughter,  Caroline." 

Worthing  was  enchanted,  and  said  so.  He  was  one 
of  those  cheerful  voluble  men  who  never  do  have  any 
difficulty  in  saying  so.  With  his  full  but  active  figure 
and  fresh  clean-shaven  face  he  was  a  pleasant  object 
of  the   countryside,   and   Caroline's   heart  warmed  to 

41 


42  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

him  as  he  smiled  his  commonplaces  and  showed  himself 
so  abundantly  friendly.  It  appeared  from  the  conver- 
sation that  followed  that  he  had  been  a  small  boy  in 
George  Grafton's  house  at  Eton  when  Grafton  had  been 
a  big  one,  that  they  had  not  met  since,  except  once, 
years  before  at  Lord's,  but  were  quite  pleased  to  meet 
now.  Also  that  Worthing  had  been  agent  to  the  Abing- 
ton  property  for  the  past  twelve  years,  and  to  the  Wil- 
borough  property  adjoining  it  for  about  half  that 
time.  A  good  deal  of  this  information  was  addressed  to 
Caroline  with  friendly  f amiliaritj'.  She  was  used  to  the 
tone  from  well-preserved  middle-aged  men.  It  was 
frankly  accepted  in  the  family  that  all  three  of  the 
girls  were  particularly  attractive  to  the  mature  and 
even  the  over-ripe  male,  and  the  reason  given  was  that 
they  made  such  a  pal  of  their  father  that  they  knew 
the  technique  of  making  themselves  so.  Caroline  had 
even  succeeded  in  making  herself  too  attractive  to  a 
widowed  Admiral  during  her  first  season,  and  had  had 
the  shock  of  her  life  in  being  asked  to  step  up  a  gen- 
eration and  a  half  at  the  end  of  it.  She  was  inclined  to 
be  a  trifle  wary  of  the  '  my  dears  '  of  elderly  gentle- 
men, but  she  had  narrowly  watched  Worthing  during 
the  process  of  his  explanations  and  would  not  have 
objected  if  lie  had  called  her  '  my  dear.'  He  did  not 
do  so,  however,  though  his  tone  to  her  implied  it,  and 
she  answered  him,  where  it  was  necessary,  in  the  frank 
and  friendly  fashion  that  was  so  attractive  in  her  and 
her  sisters. 

They  all  went  over  the  stables   and   outhouses   to- 


NEIGHBOURS  43 

gcther,  and  then  Worthing  suggested  a  run  round  the 
estate  in  the  car,  with  reference  chiefly  to  the  rearing 
and  eventual  killing  of  game. 

"  We  promised  to  go  to  tea  at  the  Vicarage,"  said 
Caroline,  as  her  father  warmly  adopted  the  sugges- 
tion. "  I  suppose  we  ought  to  keep  in  with  the  Vicar. 
I  don't  know  his  name,  but  he  seems  a  very  important 
person  here." 

She  had  her  eye  on  Worthing.  She  wanted  an  opin- 
ion of  the  Vicar,  by  word  or  by  sign. 

She  got  none.  "  Oh,  you've  seen  him  already,  have 
you?  "  he  said.  "  I  was  going  to  suggest  you  should 
come  and  have  tea  with  me.  We  should  be  at  my  house 
by  about  half-past  three,  and  it's  a  mile  further  on 
your  road." 

"  We  might  look  in  on  the  Vicar — what's  his  name, 
by  the  by? — and  excuse  ourselves," — said  Grafton,  "I 
want  to  see  the  coverts,  and  we  haven't  too  much  time. 
I  don't  suppose  he'll  object,  will  he?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  we'll  go  and  put  it  right  with  him,"  said 
Worthing.  "  He  won't  mind.  His  name  is  Mercer — a 
very  decent  fellow;  does  a  lot  of  work  and  reads  a  lot 
of  books." 

"What  kind  of  books?"  asked  Caroline,  who  also 
read  a  good  many  of  them.  She  was  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  Worthing  had  not  expressed  himself 
with  more  salt  on  the  subject  of  the  Vicar.  She  had 
that  slight  touch  of  malice  which  relieves  the  female 
mind  from  insipidity,  and  she  was  quite  sure  that  a 
more  critical  attitude  towards  the  Vicar  would  have 


44  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

been  justified,  and  might  have  provided  amusement. 
But  she  thouglit  that  Mr,  Worthing  must  be  either  a 
person  of  no  discrimination,  or  else  one  of  those  rather 
tiresome  people,  a  peacemaker.  She  reserved  to  her- 
self full  right  of  criticism  towards  the  Vicar,  but  would 
not  be  averse  from  the  discovery  of  alleviating  points 
about  him,  as  they  would  be  living  so  close  together, 
and  must  meet  occasionally. 

"What  kind  of  books?"  echoed  Worthing.  "Oh, 
I  don't  know.  Books."  Which  seemed  to  show  that 
Caroline  would  search  in  vain  among  his  own  amiable 
qualities  for  sj'mpathy  in  her  literary  tastes. 

They  all  got  into  the  big  car  and  arrived  at  the 
Vicarage,  where  they  were  introduced  to  Mrs.  Mercer, 
and  allowed  to  depart  again  after  apologies  given  and 
accepted,  and  the  requisite  number  of  minutes  devoted 
to  polite  conversation. 

The  Vicar  and  his  wife  stood  at  the  front  door  as 
they  packed  themselves  again  into  the  car.  "  Oh,  what 
delightful  people !  "  the  little  lady  exclaimed  as  they 
drove  off,  with  valedictory  waving  of  hands  from  all 
three  of  them.  "  They  will  be  an  acquisition  to  us, 
won't  they?  I  have  never  seen  a  prettier  girl  than 
Miss  Grafton,  and  such  charming  manners,  and  so 
nicely  dressed.  And  he  is  so  nice  too,  and  how  pretty 
it  is  to  see  father  and  daughter  so  fond  of  one  another ! 
Quite  an  idyll,  I  call  it.  Aren't  you  pleased,  Albert 
dear?     I  am." 

Albert  dear  was  not  pleased,  as  the  face  he  turned 
upon  her  showed  when  she  had  followed  him  into  his 


NEIGHBOURS  45 

study.  "  The  way  that  Worthing  takes  it  upon  him- 
self to  set  aside  my  arrangements  and  affect  a  supe- 
riority over  me  in  the  place  where  I  should  be  chief  is 
really  beyond  all  bearing,"  he  said  angrily.  "  It  has 
happened  time  and  again  before,  and  I  am  determined 
that  it  shall  not  happen  any  further.  The  very  next 
time  I  see  him  I  shall  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind. 
My  patience  is  at  an  end.  I  will  not  stand  it  any 
longer." 

Mrs.  Mercer  drooped  visibly.  She  had  to  recall 
exactly  what  had  happened  before  she  could  get  at  the 
causes  of  his  displeasure,  which  was  a  painful  shock 
to  her.  He  had  given,  for  him,  high  praise  to  the 
new-comers  over  the  luncheon-table,  and  she  had  ex- 
ulted in  the  prospect  of  having  people  near  at  hand 
and  able  to  add  so  much  to  the  pleasures  of  life  with 
whom  she  could  make  friends  and  not  feel  that  she  was 
disloyal  to  her  husband  in  doing  so.  And  her  raptures 
over  them  after  she  had  met  them  in  the  flesh  had  not 
at  all  exaggerated  her  feelings.  She  was  of  an  enthu- 
siastic disposition,  apt  to  admire  profusely  where  she 
admired  at  all,  and  these  new  people  had  been  so  very 
much  worthy  of  admiration,  with  their  good  looks  and 
their  wealth  and  their  charming  friendly  manners. 
However,  if  it  was  only  Mr.  Worthing  with  whom  her 
husband  was  annoyed,  that  perhaps  could  be  got  out 
of  the  way,  and  he  would  be  ready  to  join  her  in 
praise  of  the  Graftons. 

"  Well,  of  course,  it  was  rather  annoying  that  they 
should  be  whisked  off  like  that  when  we  had  hoped  to 


46  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

have  had  them  to  talk  to  comfortably,"  she  said.  "  But 
I  thought  you  didn't  mind,  dear.  Mr.  Grafton  only 
has  a  few  hours  here,  and  I  suppose  it  is  natural  that 
he  should  want  to  go  round  the  estate.  We  shall  see 
plenty  of  them  when  they  come  here  to  live." 

"That  is  not  what  I  am  objecting  to,"  said  her 
husband.  "  Mr.  Grafton  made  his  excuses  in  the  way 
a  gentleman  should,  and  it  would  have  been  absurd  to 
have  kept  him  to  his  engagement,  though  the  girl 
might  just  as  well  have  sta3^ed.  It  can't  be  of  the 
least  importance  that  she  should  see  the  places  where 
the  high  birds  may  be  expected  to  come  over,  or  what- 
ever it  is  that  they  want  to  see.  I  don't  care  very 
much  for  the  girl.  There's  a  freedom  about  her  man- 
ners I  don't  like." 

"  She  has  no  mother,  poor  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Mercer.  "  And  her  father  evidently  adores  her.  She 
would  be  apt  to  be  older  than  her  years  in  some  re- 
spects.    She  was  veri/  nice  to  me." 

"  As  I  say,"  proceeded  the  Vicar  dogmatically,  "  I've 
no  complaint  against  the  Graftons  coming  to  apologise 
for  not  keeping  their  engagement.  But  I  have  a  com- 
plaint when  a  man  like  Worthing  comes  into  my  house — 
who  hardly  ever  takes  the  trouble  to  ask  me  into  his — 
and  behaves  as  if  he  had  the  right  to  over-ride  me. 
I  hate  that  detestable  swaggering  high-handed  way  of 
his,  carrying  off  everything  as  if  nobody  had  a  right 
to  exist  except  himself.  He's  no  use  to  anybody  here 
— hardly  ever  comes  to  church,  and  takes  his  own  way 
in  scores  of  matters  that  he  ought  to  consult  me  about; 


NEIGHBOURS  47 

even  opposes  my  decisions  if  he  sees  fit,  and  seems  to 
think  that  an  insincere  word  or  smile  when  he  meets 
me  takes  away  all  the  offence  of  it.  It  doesn't,  and  it 
shan't  do  so  in  this  instance.  I  shall  have  it  out  with 
Worthing  once  and  for  all.  When  these  new  people 
come  here  I  am  not  going  to  consent  to  be  a  cipher  in 
my  own  parish,  or  as  a  priest  of  the  church  take  a 
lower  place  than  Mr.  Worthing's ;  who  is  after  all  noth- 
ing more  than  a  sort  of  gentleman  bailiff." 

"  Well,  he  has  got  a  sort  of  way  of  taking  matters 
into  his  own  hands,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer,  "  that  isn't 
always  very  agreeable,  perhaps.  But  he  is  nice  in 
many  ways,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  quarrel  with  him." 

She  knew  quite  well,  if  she  did  not  admit  it  to  her- 
self, that  it  would  be  impossible  to  quarrel  with  Worth- 
ing. She  herself  was  inclined  to  like  him,  for  he  was 
always  excessively  friendly,  and  created  the  effect  of 
liking  her.  But  she  did  feel  that  he  was  inclined  to 
belittle  her  husband's  dignity,  in  the  way  in  which  he 
took  his  own  course,  and,  if  it  conflicted  with  the  Vicar's 
wishes,  set  his  remonstrances  aside  with  a  breezy  care- 
lessness that  left  them  both  where  they  were,  and  him- 
self on  top.  Also  he  was  not  regular  in  his  attendance 
at  church,  though  he  acted  as  churchwarden.  She 
objected  to  this  not  so  much  on  purely  religious 
grounds  as  because  it  was  so  uncomplimentary  to  her 
husband,  which  were  also  the  grounds  of  the  Vicar's 
objections. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  quarrel  with  him  either,"  said  the 
Vicar.     "  I  don't  wish   to  quarrel  with  anybody.     I 


48  ABINGTOX  ABBEY 

shall  tell  him  plainly  what  I  think,  once  for  all,  and 
leave  it  there.  It  will  give  him  a  warning,  too,  that  I 
am  not  to  be  put  aside  with  these  new  people.  If 
handled  properly  I  think  they  may  be  valuable  people 
to  have  in  the  parish.  A  man  like  Grafton  is  likely  to 
want  to  do  the  right  thing  when  he  comes  to  live  in  the 
country,  and  he  is  quite  disposed,  I  should  say,  to  do 
his  duty  by  the  church  and  the  parish.  I  shall  hope 
to  show  him  what  it  is,  and  I  shall  not  allow  myself 
to  be  interfered  with  by  Mr.  Worthing.  I  shall  make 
it  my  duty,  too,  to  give  Grafton  some  warning  about 
the  people  around.  Worthing  is  a  pastmaster  in  the 
art  of  keeping  in  with  everybody,  worthy  or  unworthy, 
and  if  the  Graftons  are  guided  by  him  they  may  let 
themselves  in  for  friendships  and  intimacies  which  they 
may  be  sorry  for  afterwards." 

"  You  mean  the  Manserghs,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Mercer. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  them  particularly,  but  of 
course  they  are  most  undesirable  people.  They  are 
rich  and  live  in  a  big  house,  and  therefore  everything 
is  forgiven  them.  Worthing,  of  course,  is  hand  in 
glove  with  them — with  a  man  with  the  manners  of  a 
boor  and  a  woman  who  was  divorced,  and  an  actress 
at  that — a  painted  woman." 

"  Well,  she  is  getting  on  in  years  now,  and  I  suppose 
people  have  forgotten  a  lot,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer.  "  And 
her  first  husband  didn't  divorce  her,  did  he?  She  di- 
vorced him." 

"What  difference  does  that  make.'*     You  surely  are 


NEIGHBOURS  49 

not  going  to  stand  iq)  for  licr,  arc  you?  Especially 
after  the  way  in  which  she  behaved  to  you !  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer  doubtfully.  It  was  Lady 
Mansergh's  behaviour  to  her  husband  that  had  hitherto 
been  the  chief  cause  of  offence,  her  *  past '  having  been 
ignored  until  the  time  of  the  quarrel,  or  as  the  Vicar 
had  since  declared,  unknown.  "  Oh,  no,  Albert,  I  think 
she  is  quite  undesirable,  as  j'ou  say.  And  it  would  be 
a  thousand  pities  if  that  nice  girl,  and  her  younger 
sisters,  were  to  get  mixed  up  with  a  woman  like  that. 
I  think  you  should  give  Mr.  Grafton  a  warning.  Wil- 
borough  is  the  nearest  big  house  to  Abington, 
and  I  suppose  it  is  natural  that  they  should  be 
friendly." 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  that.  Mr.  Grafton  and  Sir 
Alexander  can  shoot  together  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  it  would  be  distinctly  wrong  for  him  to 
allow  young  girls  like  his  daughters  to  be  intimate  with 
people  like  the  Manserghs." 

"  The  sons  are  nice,  though.  Fortunately  Lady 
Mansergh  is  not  their  mother." 

"  Richard  is  away  at  sea  most  of  the  time,  and 
Geoffrey  is  not  particularly  nice,  begging  your  pardon. 
I  saw  him  in  the  stalls  of  a  theatre  last  year  with  a 
woman  whose  hair  I  feel  sure  was  dyed.  He  is  prob- 
ably going  the  same  way  as  his  father.  It  would  be 
an  insult  to  a  young  and  pure  girl  like  Miss 
Grafton  to  encourage  anything  like  intimacy  be- 
tween them." 

"  I  expect  they  will  make  friends  with  the  Pember- 


50  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

tons.  There  are  three  girls  in  their  family  and  three 
in  that." 

*'  It  would  be  a  very  bad  thing  if  they  did.  Three 
girls  with  the  tastes  of  grooms,  and  the  manners  too. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  insolent  way  in  which  that 
youngest  one  asked  me  if  I  didn't  know  what  a  bit  of 
ribbon  tied  round  a  horse's  tail  meant  when  I  was  stand- 
ing behind  her  at  that  meet  at  Surley  Green,  and  when 
I  didn't  move  at  once  that  young  cub  of  a  brother  who 
was  with  her  said:  "Well,  sir,  if  you  want  to  be 
kicked !  "  And  then  they  both  laughed  in  the  vulgarest 
fashion.  Really  the  manners  of  some  of  the  people 
about  here  who  ought  to  know  better  are  beyond  be- 
lief. The  Pcmbertons  have  never  had  the  politeness  to 
call  on  us — which  is  something  to  be  thankful  for,  any- 
how, though  it  is,  of  course,  a  slight  on  people  in  our 
position,  and  no  doubt  meant  as  such.  Of  course  they 
will  call  on  the  Graftons.  They  will  expect  to  get  some- 
thing out  of  them.  But  I  shall  warn  Grafton  to  be 
careful.  He  won't  want  his  daughters  to  acquire  their 
stable  manners." 

"  No ;  that  would  be  a  pity.  I  wish  Vera  Beckley 
had  been  as  nice  as  we  thought  she  was  at  first.  She 
would  have  been  a  nice  friend  for  these  girls.  I  never 
quite  understood  why  she  suddenly  took  to  cutting  us 
dead,  and  Mrs.  Beckley  left  off  asking  us  to  the  house, 
when  they  had  asked  us  so  often  and  we  seemed  real 
friends.  I  have  sometimes  thought  of  asking  her.  I 
am  sure  there  is  a  misunderstanding,  which  could  be 
cleared  up." 


NEIGHBOURS  51 

The  Vicar  grew  a  trifle  red.  "  You  Avill  not  do 
anything  of  the  sort,"  he  said.  "  If  the  Beck- 
leys  can  do  without  us  we  can  do  very  well  with- 
out them." 

"  You  used  to  be  so  fond  of  Vera,  Albert,"  said  Mrs. 
Mercer  reflectively,  "  and  she  of  you.  You  often  used 
to  say  it  was  like  having  a  daughter  of  your  own.  I 
wonder  what  it  was  that  made  her  turn  like  that." 

"  We  were  deceived  in  her,  that  was  all,"  said  Albert, 
who  had  recovered  his  equanimity.  "  She  is  not  a  nice 
girl.  A  clergyman  has  opportunities  of  finding  out 
these  things,  and " 

"  Oh,  then  there  was  something  that  you  knew  about, 
and  that  you  haven't  told  me." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  cross-examined,  Gertrude.  You 
must  be  content  to  leave  alone  the  things  that  belong 
to  my  office.  None  of  the  Beckleys  shall  ever  darken 
my  doors  again.  Let  that  be  enough.  If  we  have  to 
meet  them  sometimes  at  the  Abbey  we  can  be  polite  to 
them  without  letting  it  go  any  further.  There  are 
really  very  few  people  hereabouts  whom  I  should  like 
to  see  the  Graftons  make  friends  with,  and  scarcely 
any  young  ones.  Denis  Cooper  is  a  thoughtful  well- 
conducted  young  fellow,  but  he  is  to  be  ordained  at 
Advent  and  I  suppose  he  will  not  be  here  much.  Rhoda 
and  Ethel  are  nice  girls  too.  I  think  a  friendship 
might  well  be  encouraged  there.  It  would  be  pleasant 
for  them  to  have  a  nice  house  like  Abington  to  go  to, 
and  their  seriousness  might  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
Grafton  girls,  who  I  should  think  would  be  likely  to  be 


52  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

affected  by  their  father's  evident  wealth.  It  is  a 
temptation  I  should  like  to  see  them  preserved  from." 

"  Rhoda  and  Ethel  are  a  little  old  for  them." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Yes ;  that  is  a  friendship  that 
I  think  might  be  helpful  to  both  parties,  and  I  shall 
do  my  best  to  encourage  it.  I  should  like  to  see  the 
Grafton  girls  thoroughly  intimate  at  Surle}^  Rector}' 
before  Mrs.  Carruthers  comes  back.  She  has  behaved 
so  badh'  to  the  Coopers  that  she  would  be  quite  likely 
to  prevent  it  if  she  were  here,  out  of  spite." 

"  Well,  I  must  stand  up  a  little  for  Mrs.  Carruthers," 
said  Mrs.  Mercer.  "  Rhoda  and  Ethel  are  good  girls, 
I  know,  and  do  a  lot  of  useful  Avork  in  the  parish, 
but  they  do  like  to  dominate  everything  and  every- 
body, and  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers in  her  position  would  stand  it." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  said  her  husband. 
"  She  was  a  mere  girl  when  she  married  and  came  to 
live  at  Surley  Park;  she  is  hardly  more  than  a  girl 
now.  She  ought  to  have  been  thankful  to  have  their 
help  and  advice,  as  they  had  practically  run  the  parish 
for  years.  Actually  to  tell  them  to  mind  their  own 
business,  and  practically  to  turn  thera  out  of  her 
house,  over  that  affair  of  her  laundry  maid — well,  I 
don't  say  what  I  think  about  it,  but  I  am  entirely 
on  the  side  of  Rhoda  and  Ethel ;  and  so  ought  you 
to  be." 

"  Well,  I  know  they  acted  for  the  best ;  but  after 
all  they  had  made  a  mistake.  The  young  man  hadn't 
come  after  the  laundry  maid  at  all." 


NEIGHBOURS  63 

"  So  it  was  said ;  but  wc  needn't  discuss  it.  They 
were  most  forgiving,  and  prepared  to  be  all  that  was 
kind  and  sympathetic  when  Mrs.  Carruthcrs  lost  her 
husband;  and  how  did  she  return  it.''  Refused  to  see 
them,  just  as  she  refused  to  see  me  when  I  called  on 
Cooper's  behalf — and  in  my  priestly  capacity  too. 
No,  Gertrude,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  on  behalf  of 
Mrs.  Carruthers.  She  is  a  selfish  worldly  young 
woman,  and  her  bereavement,  instead  of  inclining  her 
towards  a  quiet  and  sober  life,  seems  to  have  had  just 
the  opposite  effect.  A  widow  of  hardly  more  than  two 
years,  she  goes  gadding  about  all  over  the  place,  and 
behaves  just  as  if  her  husband's  death  were  a  release 
to  her  instead  of " 

"  Well,  I  must  say  that  I  think  it  was  rather  a  re- 
lease, Albert.  Mr.  Carruthers  had  everything  to  make 
life  happy,  as  you  have  often  said,  but  drink  was  his 
curse,  and  if  he  had  not  been  killed  he  might  have  spoilt 
her  life  for  her.  You  said  that  too,  you  know,  at 
the  time." 

"  Perhaps  I  did.  I  was  terribly  upset  at  the  time 
of  the  accident.  It  seemed  so  dreadful  for  a  mere  girl 
to  be  left  widowed  in  that  way,  and  I  was  ready  to 
give  her  all  the  sympathy  and  help  I  could.  But  she 
would  have  none  of  it,  and  turned  out  hard  and  un- 
feeling, instead  of  being  softened  by  the  blow  that  had 
been  dealt  her,  as  a  good  woman  would  have  been.  She 
might  have  reformed  her  husband,  but  she  did  nothing 
of  the  sort;  and  now,  as  I  say,  she  behaves  as  if  there 
was  nothing  to  do  in  the  world  except  spend  money 


54  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

and  enjoy  one's  self.  She  would  be  a  bad  influence 
for  these  young  girls  that  are  coining  here,  and  I  hope 
they  will  not  have  too  much  to  do  with  her.  If  we 
can  get  them  interested  in  good  things  instead  of  amuse- 
ments, we  shall  only  be  doing  our  duty.  Not  that 
healthy  amusement  is  to  be  deprecated  by  any  means. 
It  isn't  our  part  to  be  kill-joys.  But  with  ourselves 
as  their  nearest  neighbours,  and  nice  active  girls  like 
the  Coopers  not  far  off,  and  one  or  two  more,  they  will 
have  a  very  pleasant  little  society,  and  in  fact  we  ought 
all  to  be  very  happy  together." 

"  Yes.  It  is  nice  looking  forward  to  having  neigh- 
bours that  we  can  be  friends  with.  I  do  hope  nothing 
will  happen  to  make  it  awkward." 

"  Why  should  anything  happen  to  make  it  awkward.'' 
We  don't  know  much  about  the  Graftons  yet,  but  they 
seem  to  be  nice  people.  At  any  rate  we  can  assume 
that  they  are,  until  it  is  proved  to  the  contrary.  That 
is  only  Christian.  Just  because  so  many  of  the  people 
round  us  are  not  what  they  should  be  is  no  reason 
why  these  new-comers  shouldn't  be." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  they  are  nice.  I  think  I  should 
rather  like  to  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Walter  and  Mollie  about 
them,  Albert.  It  will  be  delightful  for  them  to  have 
people  at  the  Abbey — especially  for  Mollie,  who  has  so 
few  girl  friends." 

"  We  might  go  over  together,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"  There  are  one  or  two  little  things  I  want  Mollie  to 
do  for  me.  Yes,  it  will  be  nice  for  her,  if  the  Grafton 
girls  turn  out  what  they  should  be.    We  shall  have  to 


NEIGHBOURS  65 

give  the  Walters  a  little  advice.  They  haven't  been 
used  to  the  life  of  large  houses.  I  think  they  ought 
to  go  rather  slow  at  first." 

"  Oh,  Mollie  is  such  a  dear  girl,  and  has  been  well 
brought  up.  I  don't  think  she  would  be  likely  to  make 
any  mistakes." 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  would.  But  I  shall  talk  to 
her  about  it.  She  is  a  dear  girl,  as  you  say.  I  look 
upon  her  almost  as  a  daughter,  though  she  has  been 
here  such  a  short  time.  I  should  like  her  to  acquit 
herself  well.  She  will,  I'm  sure,  if  she  realises  that  this 
new  chance  for  making  friends  comes  through  us.  Yes, 
let  us  go  over  to  the  cottage,  Gertrude.  It  is  early 
yet.    We  can  ask  Mrs.  Walter  for  a  cup  of  tea." 


CHAPTER    y 
SETTLING  IN 

The  Abbey  was  ready  for  occupation  early  in  April. 
Caroline,  Barbara,  and  Miss  Waterhouse  went  down 
on  Monday,  Grafton  followed  on  Friday  for  the  week- 
end and  took  Beatrix  with  him.  She  had  announced 
that  the  dear  boy  couldn't  be  left  by  himself  in  London, 
or  he'd  probably  get  into  mischief,  and  she  was  going 
to  stay  and  look  after  him.  As  she  had  thought  of  it 
first,  she  had  her  way.  Beatrix  generally  did  get  her 
way,  though  she  never  made  herself  unpleasant  about 
it.  Nor  did  she  ever  wheedle,  when  a  decision  went 
against  her,  though  she  could  wheedle  beautifully. 

If  any  one  of  the  three  girls  could  be  said  to  be 
spoilt,  it  was  Beatrix.  She  had  been  frail  as  a  child, 
with  a  delicate  loveliness  that  had  put  even  Caroline's 
beauty  into  the  shade,  although  Caroline,  with  her 
sweet  grey  eyes  and  her  glowing  health,  had  been  a 
child  of  whom  any  parents  might  have  been  inordinately 
proud.  The  young  mother  had  never  quite  admitted 
her  second  child  to  share  in  the  adoration  she  felt  for 
her  first-born,  but  Beatrix  had  twined  herself  round 
her  father's  heart,  and  had  always  kept  first  place  in  it, 
though  not  so  much  as  to  make  his  slight  preference 
apparent.    As  a  small  child,  she  was  more  clinging  than 

66 


SETTLING  IN  67 

the  other  two,  and  flattered  his  love  and  sense  of  pro- 
tection. As  she  grew  older  she  developed  an  unlooked- 
for  capriciousness.  When  she  was  inclined  to  be  sweet 
and  loving  she  was  more  so  than  ever ;  but  sometimes 
she  would  hardly  suffer  even  a  kiss,  and  had  no  caresses 
for  anybody.  She  often  hurt  her  father  in  this  way, 
especiall}^  in  the  early  days  of  his  bereavement,  but  he 
was  so  equable  by  nature  that  he  would  dismiss  her 
contrariety  with  a  smile,  and  turn  to  Caroline,  who 
always  gave  him  what  he  wanted.  As  the  children 
grew  older  he  learnt  to  protect  himself  against  Beatrix's 
inequalities  of  behaviour  by  a  less  caressing  manner 
with  them.  It  was  for  them  to  come  to  him  for  the 
signs  and  tokens  of  love,  and  it  was  all  the  sweeter 
to  him  when  they  did  so.  Even  now,  when  she  was 
grown  up,  it  thrilled  him  when  Beatrix  was  in  one  of 
her  affectionate  moods.  She  was  not  the  constant  in- 
variable companion  to  him  that  Caroline  was,  and 
their  minds  did  not  flow  together  as  his  and  Caroline's 
did.  But  he  loved  her  approaches,  and  felt  more 
pleased  when  she  offered  him  companionship  than  with 
any  other  of  his  children.  Thus,  those  who  advance 
and  withdraw  have  an  unfair  advantage  over  those  who 
never  change. 

Caroline  and  Barbara  met  them  in  the  big  car  which 
had  been  bought  for  station  work  at  Abington.  It 
was  a  wild  wet  evening,  but  they  were  snug  enough 
inside,  Caroline  and  Barbara  sitting  on  either  side  of 
their  father,  and  Beatrix  on  one  of  the  let-down  seats. 
Beatrix  was  never  selfish;  although  she  liked  to  have 


58  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

her  own  way  she  seldom  took  it  at  the  expense  of  others. 
She  had  had  her  father's  sole  companionship,  and  it  was 
only  fair  that  she  should  yield  her  place  to  her  younger 
sister.     So  she  did  so  of  her  own  accord. 

Caroline  and  Barbara  were  full  of  news.  "  Every- 
thing is  ready  for  you,  darling,"  said  Caroline,  her 
arm  tucked  into  his.  "  You'll  feel  quite  at  home  di- 
rectly you  get  into  the  house;  and  there  are  very  few 
more  arrangements  to  make.  We've  been  working  like 
slaves,  and  all  the  servants  too." 

"  The  Dragon  has  had  a  headache,  but  she  has  done 
more  than  anybody,"  said  Barbara.  "  It's  all  perfectly 
lovely.  Daddy.  We  do  like  being  country  people 
awfully.  We  went  down  to  the  village  in  the  rain 
this  afternoon — the  Dragon  and  all.  That  made  me 
feel  it,  you  know." 

"  It  made  us  feel  it,  when  you  stepped  into  a  puddle 
and  splashed  us  all  over,"  said  Caroline.  "  George 
dear,  we've  had  callers  already." 

"  That  ought  to  have  cheered  you  up,"  said  Grafton. 
"Who  were  they?" 

"  All  clerical.  I  think  Lord  Salisbury  put  them  on 
to  us.     He  wants  us  to  be  in  with  the  clergy." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     Lord  Salisbury !  " 

"  The  Reverend  Salisbury  Mercer.  I  called  him  that 
first,"  said  Barbara.  "  He  likes  us.  He's  been  in  and 
out,  and  given  us  a  lot  of  advice.  He  likes  me  espe- 
cially. He  looked  at  me  with  a  loving  smile  and  said 
I  was  a  sunbeam." 

"  We  had  Mr.  Cooper,  Rector  of  Surley,  and  his 


SETTLING  IN  59 

two  daughters,"  said  Caroline.  "  He  is  a  dear  old 
thing  and  keeps  bees.  The  two  daughters  look  rather 
as  if  they  had  been  stung  by  them.  They  are  very 
officious,  but  sweeter  than  honey  and  the  honeycomb 
at  present.  They  said  it  was  nice  to  have  girls  living 
in  a  house  near  them  again ;  they  hadn't  had  any  for 
some  years — I  should  think  it  must  be  about  thirty, 
but  they  didn't  say  that.  They  said  they  hoped  we 
should  see  a  good  deal  of  one  another." 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Beatrix.  "Who  were  the 
others  ?  " 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williams,  Vicar  and  Vicaress  of  I've 
forgotten  what.  They  were  quite  nice.  Genial 
variety." 

"  The  Breezy  Bills  we  called  them,"  said  Barbara. 
"  They  almost  blew  us  out  of  the  house.  He  carpenters, 
and  she  breeds  Airedales,  and  shows  them.  She  brought 
one  with  her — a  darling  of  a  thing.  They've  promised 
us  a  puppy  and  a  kennel  to  put  it  in  alread3\" 

"  You  didn't  ask  her  for  one,  did  you?  "  asked  Graf- 
ton. "  If  she  breeds  them  for  show  we  ought  to  offer 
to  pay  for  it." 

"  Oh,  you're  going  to  pai/  for  it  all  right,  darling. 
You  needn't  worry  about  that.  The  kennel  too.  But 
you're  going  to  get  that  for  the  cost  of  the  wood  and 
the  paint.  He  isn't  going  to  charge  anything  for  his 
time.  He  laughed  heartily  when  he  said  that.  I  like 
the  Breezy  Bills.  They're  going  to  take  us  out  otter 
hunting  when  the  time  comes." 

"  A  Mrs.  Walter  and  her  daughter  came,"  said  Caro- 


60  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

line.  "  At  least  they  were  brought  by  the  Mercers. 
They  live  in  a  little  house  at  the  top  of  the  village. 
Rather  a  pretty  girl,  and  nice,  but  shy.  I  wanted  to 
talk  to  her  and  see  what  she  was  like,  but  Lord  Salis- 
bury wouldn't  let  me — at  least  not  without  him. 
George  darling,  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  cope  with 
Lord  Salisbury.  He's  screwing  in  frightfully.  I  think 
he  has  an  idea  of  being  the  man  about  the  house  when 
you're  up  in  London.  He  asked  how  often  you'd  be 
down,  and  said  we  could  always  go  and  consult  him 
when  you  were  away.  He  came  directly  after  break- 
fast yesterday  with  a  hammer  and  some  nails,  to  hang 
pictures." 

"  The  Dragon  sent  him  away,"  said  Barbara.  "  She 
was  rather  splendid — extremely  polite  to  him,  but  a 
little  surprised.  She  doesn't  like  him.  She  won't  say 
so,  but  I  know  it  by  her  manner.  I  went  in  with  her, 
and  it  was  then  that  he  called  me  a  sunbeam.  He  said 
he  did  so  want  to  make  himself  useful,  and  wasn't 
there  anything  he  could  do.  I  said  he  might  dust  the 
drawing-room  if  he  liked." 

"  Barbara ! " 

"  Well,  I  said  it  to  myself." 

"What  is  Mrs.  Mercer  like.''"  asked  Beatrix. 

"  Oh,  a  nice  little  thing,"  said  Caroline.  "  But  very 
much  under  the  thumb  of  Lord  Salisbury.  I  think 
he  leads  her  a  dance.  If  we  have  to  keep  him  off  a 
little,  we  must  be  careful  not  to  offend  her.  I  think 
she  must  have  rather  a  dull  time  of  it.  She's  quite 
harmless,  and  wants  to  be  friends." 


SETTLING  IN  61 

"  We  mustn't  quarrel  with  the  fellow,"  said  Grafton. 
"  Haven't  you  seen  AVorthing?  " 

"  Have  we  seen  Worthing ! "  exclaimed  Barbara. 
"  He's  a  lamb.  He's  been  away,  but  he  came  back 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  rolled  up  directly.  The 
Dragon  likes  him.  He  was  awfully  sweet  to  her.  He's 
going  to  buy  us  some  horses.  You  don't  mind,  do  you, 
Daddy?     I  know  you've  got  lots  of  money." 

"  That's  where  you  make  the  mistake,"  said  Grafton, 
"  but  of  course  we  must  have  a  gee  or  two.  I  want  to 
talk  to  Worthing  about  that.  Did  you  ask  him  to  dine 
to-night,  Cara?  " 

"  Yes.  He  grinned  all  over.  He  said  we  were  a 
boon  and  a  blessing  to  men.    He  really  loves  us." 

"  And  we  love  him,"  said  Barbara.  "  We  were  won- 
dering when  the  time  would  come  to  call  him  Jimmy. 
We  feel  like  that  towards  him.  Or,  Dad  darling,  it  is 
topping  living  in  the  country.  Don't  let's  ever  go  back 
to  London." 

All  the  circumstances  of  life  had  been  so  much  at 
Grafton's  disposal  to  make  what  he  liked  out  of  them 
that  he  had  become  rather  difficult  to  move  to  special 
pleasure  by  his  surroundings.  But  he  felt  a  keen  sense 
of  satisfaction  as  he  entered  this  beautiful  house  that 
he  had  bought,  and  the  door  was  shut  on  the  wild  and 
windy  weather.  That  sensation,  of  a  house  as  a  refuge, 
is  only  to  be  gained  in  full  measure  in  the  country, 
whether  it  is  because  the  house  stands  alone  against 
the  elements,  or  that  the  human  factor  in  it  counts  for 
more  than  in  a  town.     There  was  the  quiet  old  stone- 


62  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

built  hall  cheered  by  the  fire  of  logs  on  the  great  hearth, 
the  spacious  soft-carpeted  staircase  and  corridors,  the 
long  gallery  transformed  by  innumerable  adjustments 
into  the  very  shrine  of  companionable  home  life,  and  all 
around  the  sense  of  completeness  and  fitness  and  beauty 
which  taste  and  a  suflSciency  of  wealth  can  give  to  a 
house  built  in  the  days  when  building  was  the  expres- 
sion of  ideas  and  aspirations,  and  an  art  as  creative 
and  interpretative  as  any. 

He  felt  positively  happy  as  he  dressed  in  the  large 
comfortable,  but  not  over  luxurious  room  that  Caro- 
line had  chosen  for  him.  He  had  expressed  no  prefer- 
ences on  the  subject  when  they  had  gone  over  the  house 
together,  but  remembered  now  that  he  had  rather  liked 
this  particular  room  out  of  the  score  or  so  of  bedrooms 
they  had  gone  through.  It  looked  out  on  to  the  quiet 
little  space  of  lawn  and  the  trees  beyond  from  three 
windows,  and  would  get  the  first  of  the  sun.  He  loved 
the  sun,  and  Caroline  knew  that.  She  knew  all  his 
minor  tastes,  perhaps  better  than  he  knew  them  him- 
self. He  would  have  been  contented  with  a  sunny  room 
and  all  his  conveniences  around  him,  or  so  he  would 
have  thought.  But  she  had  seen  that  he  had  much  more 
than  that.  The  old  furniture  which  had  struck  him 
pleasantly  on  their  first  visit  was  there — the  big  bed 
with  its  chintz  tester,  the  chintz-covered  sofa,  the  great 
wardrobe  of  polished  mahogany — everything  that  had 
given  the  room  its  air  of  solid  old-fashioned  comfort, 
and  restful,  rather  faded  charm.  But  the  charm  and 
the   comfort    seemed   to   have   been   heightened.      The 


SETTLING  IN  63 

slightly  faded  air  had  given  place  to  one  of  freshness. 
The  change  was  not  so  great  as  to  bring  a  sense  of 
modernity  to  unbalance  the  effect  of  the  whole,  but  only 
to  make  it  more  real.  Caroline  was  a  genius  at  this 
sort  of  expression,  and  her  love  and  devotion  towards 
him  had  stimulated  her.  The  freshness  had  come  from 
the  fact  that  she  had  changed  all  the  chintzes,  and  the 
carpet  and  curtains,  ransacking  the  house  for  the  best 
she  could  find  for  the  purpose.  She  had  changed  some 
of  the  furniture  too,  and  added  to  it.  Also  the  prints. 
He  did  recognise  that  change,  as  he  looked  around  him, 
and  took  it  all  in.  He  was  fond  of  old  prints,  and  had 
noticed  those  that  were  of  any  value  as  he  had  gone 
through  the  rooms.  There  had  been  rubbish  mixed  with 
the  good  things  in  this  room;  but  there  was  none  left. 
"  Good  child !  "  he  said  to  himself  with  satisfaction  as 
he  saw  what  she  had  done  in  this  way. 

He  thought  of  her  and  his  other  children  as  he 
dressed,  and  he  thought  of  his  young  wife.  A  charm- 
ing crayon  portrait  of  her  hung  in  the  place  of  honour 
above  the  mantelpiece,  on  which  there  were  also  photo- 
graphs of  her,  and  of  the  children,  in  all  stages  of  their 
growth.  Caroline  had  collected  them  from  all  over  the 
London  house.  The  crayon  portrait  had  been  one  of 
two  done  by  a  very  clever  young  artist,  now  a  famous 
one,  whom  they  had  met  on  their  honeymoon.  This 
had  been  the  first,  and  Grafton  had  thought  it  had  not 
done  justice  to  his  wife's  beauty;  so  the  artist,  with  a 
smiling  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  had  offered  to  do  another 
one,  which  had  pleased  him  much  better,  and  had  hung 


64.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

ever  since  in  his  bedroom  in  London.  Now,  as  he  looked 
at  this  portrait,  wliich  had  hung  in  a  room  he  seldom 
went  into,  he  wondered  how  he  could  have  been  so 
blind.  The  beauty,  with  which  he  had  fallen  in  love, 
was  there,  but  the  artist  had  seen  much  more  than  the 
beauty  that  was  on  the  surface.  It  told  immeasurably 
more  about  the  sweet  young  bride  than  the  picture  he 
had  made  of  her  afterwards.  It  told  something  of 
what  she  would  be  when  the  beauty  of  form  and 
feature  and  colouring  should  have  waned,  of  what 
she  would  have  been  to-day  more  than  twenty  years 
later. 

Grafton  was  not  a  man  who  dwelt  on  the  past,  and 
his  life  had  been  too  prosperous  and  contented  to  lead 
him  to  look  forward  very  often  to  the  future.  He  took 
it  as  it  came,  and  enjoyed  it,  without  hugging  himself 
too  much  on  the  causes  of  his  enjoyment.  The  only 
unhappiness  he  had  ever  known  had  been  in  the  loss  of 
his  wife,  but  the  wound  had  healed  gradually,  and  had 
now  ceased  to  pain  him. 

But  it  throbbed  a  little  now  as  he  looked  at  the  por- 
trait with  new  eyes.  He  and  she  had  talked  together 
of  a  country  house  some  time  in  the  future  of  their  long 
lives  together — some  such  house  as  this,  if  they  should 
wait  until  there  was  enough  money.  It  was  just  what 
she  would  have  delighted  in.  She  had  been  brought  up 
in  a  beautiful  country  house,  and  loved  it.  Caroline 
inherited  her  fine  perceptions  and  many  of  her  tastes 
from  her.  It  would  have  been  very  sweet  to  have  had 
her  companionship  now,  in  this  pleasant  and  even  ex- 


SETTLING  IN  65 

citing  life  that  was  opening  up  before  them.  They 
would  all  have  been  intensely  happy  together. 

He  turned  away  with  a  faint  frown  of  perplexity. 
She  would  have  been  a  middle-aged  woman  now,  the 
mother  of  grown-up  daughters.  To  think  of  her  like 
that  was  to  think  of  a  stranger.  His  old  wound  had 
throbbed  because  he  had  caught  a  fresh  glimpse  of  her 
as  the  young  girl  he  had  so  loved,  and  loved  still,  for 
she  had  hardly  been  more  than  a  girl  when  she  had  died. 
He  supposed  he  would  have  gone  on  loving  her  just  the 
same ;  his  love  for  her  had  grown  no  less  during  the 
short  years  of  their  married  life;  he  had  never  wanted 
anybody  else,  and  had  never  wanted  anybody  else  since, 
remembering  what  she  had  been.  But  it  was  an  un- 
doubted fact  that  husbands  and  wives  in  middle-age 
had  usually  shed  a  good  deal  of  their  early  love,  or 
so  it  seemed  to  him,  from  his  experience  of  married 
men  of  his  own  age.  Would  it  have  been  so  with  him? 
He  couldn't  think  it,  but  he  couldn't  tell.  To  him 
she  would  always  be  what  she  had  been,  even  when  he 
grew  old.  It  was  perplexing  to  think  of  her  as  growing 
old  too ;  and  there  was  no  need  to  do  so. 

The  years  had  passed  very  quickly.  Caroline  had 
been  only  five  when  she  had  died,  Beatrix  three,  and 
Barbara  a  baby.  And  now  the  two  elder  were  groAvn 
up,  and  Barbara  nearly  so.  It  came  liome  to  him,  as 
he  looked  at  their  photographs  on  the  mantelpiece,  how 
pleasant  they  had  made  life  for  him,  and  how  much  he 
still  had  in  his  home  in  spite  of  the  blank  that  his  wife's 
death  had  made.     This  puzzled  him  a  little  too.     He 


66  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

thought  he  ought  to  have  missed  her  more,  and  be  miss- 
ing her  more  now.  But  introspection  was  not  his  habit, 
and  the  hands  of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  were 
progressing  towards  the  dinner  hour.  He  dressed 
quickly,  with  nothing  in  his  mind  but  pleasurable  an- 
ticipation of  the  evening  before  him. 

Worthing  was  in  the  morning-room  talking  to  Caro- 
line when  he  went  downstairs.  He  looked  large  and 
beaming  and  well  washed  and  brushed.  The  greeting 
between  the  two  men  was  cordial.  Each  had  struck  a 
chord  in  the  other,  and  it  was  plain  that  before  long 
they  would  be  cronies.  Worthing  was  outspoken  in 
his  admiration  of  what  had  been  done  with  the  house. 

"  I've  been  telling  this  young  lady,"  he  said,  "  that  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible.  Nothing  seems  to  be 
changed,  and  yet  everything  seems  to  be  changed. 
Look  at  this  room  now!  It's  the  one  that  Brett  used 
to  occupy,  and  it  used  to  give  me  a  sort  of  depressed 
feeling  whenever  I  came  into  it.  Now  it's  a  jolly  room 
to  come  into.  You  know,  somehow,  that  when  you  go 
out  of  it,  you're  going  to  get  a  good  dinner." 

He  laughed  with  a  full  throat.  Caroline  smiled  and 
looked  round  the  room,  which  had  been  transformed 
by  her  art  from  the  dull  abode  of  a  man  who  cared 
nothing  for  his  surroundings  into  something  that  ex- 
pressed home  and  contentment  and  welcome. 

Grafton  put  his  arm  around  her  as  they  stood  before 
the  fire.  "  She's  a  wonder  at  it,"  he  said.  "  She's  done 
all  sorts  of  things  to  my  room  upstairs.  I  felt  at  home 
in  it  at  once." 


SETTLING  IN  67 

She  smiled  up  at  him  and  looked  very  pleased.  He 
did  not  always  notice  the  things  she  did  out  of  love  for 
him. 

The  other  two  girls  came  in  with  Miss  Waterhouse. 
Beatrix  looked  enchanting  in  a  black  frock  which  showed 
up  the  loveliness  of  her  delicate  colouring  and  scarcely 
yet  matured  contours.  Worthing  almost  gasped  as 
he  looked  at  her,  and  then  shook  hands,  but  recovered 
himself  to  look  at  the  three  of  them  standing  before 
him.  "  Now  how  long  do  you  suppose  you're  going  to 
keep  these  three  young  women  at  home.''"  he  asked 
genially,  as  old  Jarvis  came  in  to  announce  dinner. 

They  were  all  as  merry  as  possible  over  the  dinner- 
table.  Beatrix  made  them  laugh  with  her  account  of 
the  house  in  London  as  run  by  herself  with  a  depleted 
staff.  She  was  known  not  to  be  domestically  inclined 
and  made  the  most  of  her  own  deficiencies,  while  not 
sparing  the  servants  who  had  been  left  behind.  But 
she  dealt  with  them  in  such  a  way  that  old  Jarvis 
grinned  indulgently  at  her  recital,  and  the  two  new 
footmen  who  had  been  engaged  for  the  Abbey  each 
hoped  that  it  might  fall  to  his  lot  some  day  to  take  the 
place  of  their  colleague  who  had  been  left  behind. 

Worthing  enjoyed  himself  immensely.  All  three  of 
the  girls  talked  gaily  and  freely,  and  seemed  bubbling 
over  with  laughter  and  good  spirits.  Their  father 
seemed  almost  as  young  as  they  were,  in  the  way  he 
laughed  and  talked  with  them.  Miss  Waterhouse  took 
little  part  in  the  conversation,  but  smiled  appreciatively 
on  each  in  turn,  and  was  never  left  out  of  it.     As  for 


68  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

himself,  he  was  accepted  as  one  of  themselves,  and 
initiated  into  all  sorts  of  cr3^ptic  allusions  and  humours, 
such  as  a  laughter-loving  united  and  observant  family 
gathers  round  about  its  speech.  He  became  more  and 
more  avuncular  as  the  meal  progressed,  and  at  last 
Barbara,  who  was  sitting  next  to  him,  said:  "You 
know,  I  think  we  must  call  you  Uncle  Jimmy,  if  j'ou 
don't  mind.  It  seems  to  fit  jou,  and  we  do  like  things 
that  fit,  in  this  family." 

He  accepted  the  title  with  enthusiasm.  "  I've  got 
nephews  and  nieces  all  over  the  place,"  he  said.  "  But 
the  more  the  merrier.  I'm  a  first-class  uncle,  and  never 
forget  anybody  at  Christmas." 

They  began  to  discuss  people.  A  trifle  of  criticism, 
hardly  to  be  called  malice,  crept  into  the  conversation. 
Miss  Waterhouse  found  it  necessary  to  say:  "  Barbara 
darling,  I  don't  think  you  should  get  into  the  way  of 
always  calling  the  Vicar  Lord  Salisbury.  You  might 
forget  and  do  it  before  somebody  who  would  repeat  it 
to  him." 

"  I  think  he'd  like  it,"  said  Caroline.  "  I'm  sure  he 
loves  a  lord." 

Worthing  sat  and  chuckled  as  an  account  was  given 
of  the  visits  of  the  *  Breezy  Bills,'  and  the  Misses 
Cooper,  who  were  given  the  name  of  '  the  Zebras,' 
partly  owing  to  their  facial  conformation,  partly  to 
the  costumes  they  had  appeared  in.  He  brought  for- 
ward no  criticism  himself,  and  shirked  questions  that 
would  have  led  to  any  on  his  part,  but  he  evidently  had 
no  objection  to  it  as  spicing  conversation,  and  freed 


SETTLING  IN  69 

himself  from  the  slight  suspicion  of  being  a  professional 
peacemaker,  "  He's  an  old  darling,"  Barbara  said  of 
him  afterwards.  "  I  really  believe  he  likes  everybody, 
including  Lord  Salisbury." 

When  the  two  men  were  left  alone  together,  Worth- 
ing said :  "  You've  got  one  of  the  nicest  families  I  ever 
met,  Grafton.  They'll  liven  us  up  here  like  anything. 
Lord,  what  a  boon  it  is  to  have  this  house  opened  up 
again !  " 

"  They're  a  cheery  lot,"  said  Grafton.  "  You'll  like 
the  boy  too,  I  think.  He'll  be  home  soon  now.  I  sup- 
pose there  are  some  people  about  for  them  all  to  play 
with.  I  hardly  know  anybody  in  this  part  of  the 
world." 

"  There  are  some  of  the  nicest  people  you'd  meet  any- 
where," said  Worthing.  "  They'll  all  be  coming  to  call 
directl}'.  Oh,  yes,  we're  very  fortunate  in  that  way. 
But  yours  is  the  only  house  quite  near.  It'll  mean  a 
lot  to  me,  I  can  tell  you,  to  have  the  Abbey  lived  in 
again,  'specially  with  those  nice  young  people  of  yours." 

"How  far  off  is  Wilborough.?  You  go  there  a  lot, 
don't  you  "^  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  look  after  the  place,  as  you  know, 
and  old  Sir  Alexander  likes  to  have  me  pottering  about 
with  him.  You'll  like  the  old  boy.  He's  seventy,  but 
he's  full  of  fun.  Good  man  on  a  horse  too,  though 
he  suffers  a  lot  from  rheumatism.  Wilborough?  It's 
about  two  miles  from  me ;  about  three  from  here." 

"  What's  Lady  Mansergh  like.?    Wasn't  she " 

"  Well,  yes,  she  was ;  but  it's  a  long  time  ago.     No- 


70  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

body  remembers  anything  about  it.  Charming  old 
woman,  with  a  heart  of  gold." 

"  Old  woman  !  I  thought  she  was  years  younger  than 
him,  and  still  kept  her  golden  hair  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  Well,  yes,  she  does.  Wouldn't  thank  you  for  call- 
ing her  old,  either.  And  I  don't  suppose  she's  much 
over  fifty.  But  she's  put  on  flesh.  That  sort  of  women 
does,  you  know,  when  they  settle  down.  Extraordinary 
how  they  take  to  it  all,  though.  She  used  to  hunt  when 
I  first  came  here.  Rode  jolly  straight  too.  And  any- 
body'd  think  she'd  lived  in  the  country  all  her  life. 
Well,  I  suppose  she  has,  the  best  part  of  it.  Dick  must 
be  twenty-eight  or  nine,  I  should  think,  and  Geoffrey 
about  twenty-five.     Nice  fellows,  both  of  them." 

"  Mercer  told  me,  that  second  time  I  came  down, 
that  they  weren't  proper  people  for  the  children  to 
know." 

A  shade  crossed  Worthing's  expansive  face.  "  Of 
course  a  parson  has  different  ideas  about  things,"  he 
said.  "  She  did  divorce  her  first  husband,  it's  true ; 
but  he  was  a  rotter  of  the  worst  type.  There  was 
never  anything  against  her.  She  was  before  our  time, 
but  a  fellow  told  me  that  when  she  was  on  the  stage 
she  was  as  straight  as  they  make  'em,  though  lively  and 
larky.  All  I  can  say  is  that  if  your  girls  were  mine  I 
shouldn't  object  to  their  knowing  her." 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  enough  for  me.  They  probably 
won't  want  to  be  bosom  friends.  It  would  be  awkward, 
though,  having  people  about  that  one  didn't  want  to 


SETTLING  IN  71 

know.  According  to  Mercer,  there  aren't  many  people 
about  here  that  one  would  waftt  to  know,  except  a  few 
parsons  and  their  families.  He  seems  to  have  a  down 
on  the  lot  of  them." 

"  Well,  between  you  and  me,"  said  Worthing  con- 
fidentially, "  I  shouldn't  take  much  notice  of  what  Mer- 
cer says,  if  I  were  you.  He's  a  nice  enough  fellow,  but 
he  does  seem,  somehow,  to  get  at  loggerheads  with 
people.  I  wouldn't  say  anything  against  the  chap  be- 
hind his  back,  but  you'd  find  it  out  for  yourself  in 
time.  You'll  see  everybody  there  is,  and  you  can  judge 
for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  do  that  all  right.  Let's  go  and  play 
bridge.    The  girls  are  pretty  good  at  it." 


CHAPTER   VI 

VISITORS 

Mrs.  Walter  and  Mollie  were  at  their  mid-day 
Sunday  dinner.  Stone  Cottage,  where  they  lived,  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  village  street.  It  had  a  fair-sized 
drawing-room  and  a  little  bandbox  of  a  dining-room, 
with  three  bedrooms  and  an  attic,  and  a  garden  of 
about  half  an  acre.  Its  rent  was  under  thirty  pounds 
a  year,  and  it  was  as  nice  a  little  country  home  as  a 
widow  lady  with  a  very  small  income  and  her  daughter 
could  wish  for. 

Mrs.  Walter's  husband  had  been  a  schoolmaster.  He 
was  a  brilliant  scholar  and  would  certainly  have  risen 
high  in  his  profession.  But  he  had  died  within  two 
years  of  their  marriage,  leaving  her  almost  unprovided 
for.  She  had  the  income  from  an  insurance  policy 
of  a  thousand  pounds  and  he  had  left  the  manuscript 
of  a  schoolbook,  which  was  to  have  been  the  first  of 
many  such.  One  of  his  colleagues  had  arranged  for 
its  publication  on  terms  not  as  favourable  as  they 
should  have  been,  but  it  had  brought  her  in  something 
every  year,  and  its  sales  had  increased  until  now  they 
produced  a  respectable  yearly  sum.  For  twenty  years 
she  had  acted  as  matron  in  one  of  the  boarding-houses 

72 


VISITORS  73 

of  the  school  at  which  her  husband  had  been  assistant 
master.  It  had  been  a  hard  life,  and  she  was  a  delicate 
woman,  always  with  the  fear  before  her  of  losing  her 
post  before  she  could  save  enough  to  live  on  and  keep 
Mollie  with  her.  The  work,  for  which  she  was  not 
well  suited,  had  tried  her,  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
immense  relief  and  thankfulness  that  she  at  last  reached 
the  point  at  which  she  could  give  it  up,  and  live  her  own 
quiet  life  with  her  daughter.  She  could  not,  in  fact, 
have  gone  on  with  it  much  longer,  and  kept  what  in- 
different health  she  had;  and  looking  back  she  was 
inclined  to  wonder  how  she  had  stood  it  for  so  long. 
Every  morning  that  she  woke  up  in  her  quiet  little 
cottage  brought  a  blissful  sense  of  relief  at  being  free 
from  all  the  stress  and  worry  of  that  uncongenial  life, 
and  no  place  she  could  have  found  to  live  in  would  have 
been  too  quiet  and  retired  for  her. 

She  was  a  thin  colourless  woman,  with  whatever  good 
looks  she  may  have  had  in  her  youth  washed  out  of  her 
by  ill-health  and  an  anxious  life.  But  Mollie  was  a 
pretty  girl,  soft  and  round  and  dimpled,  and  wanting 
only  encouragement  to  break  into  merriment  and  chat- 
ter. She  needed  a  good  deal  of  encouragement,  though. 
She  was  shy,  and  diffident  about  herself.  Her  mother 
had  kept  her  as  retired  as  possible  from  the  busy  noisy 
boys'  life  by  which  they  had  been  surrounded.  The 
housemaster  and  his  wife  had  not  been  sympathetic  to 
either  of  them.  They  were  snobs,  and  had  daughters 
of  their  own,  not  so  pretty  as  Mollie,  nor  so  nice.  There 
had  been  slights,  which  had  extended  themselves  to  the 


74  ABINGTQN  ABBEY 

day  school  at  -which  she  had  been  educated.  During 
the  two  years  before  they  had  settled  down  at  Abington 
she  had  been  at  a  school  in  Paris,  first  as  a  pupil,  then 
as  a  teacher.  She  had  gained  her  French,  but  not  much 
in  the  wa}^  of  self-confidence.  She  too  was  pleased 
enough  to  live  quietly  in  the  country ;  she  had  had 
quite  enough  of  living  in  a  crowd.  And  Abington  had 
been  delightful  to  them,  not  only  from  the  pleasure  they 
had  from  the  pretty  cottage,  all  their  own,  but  from 
the  beauty  of  the  country,  and  from  the  kindness  with 
which  they  had  been  received  by  the  Vicar  and  Mrs. 
Mercer,  who  had  given  them  an  intimacy  which  had 
not  come  into  their  lives  before.  For  Mrs.  Walter  had 
dropped  out  from  among  her  husband's  friends,  and 
had  made  no  new  ones  as  long  as  she  had  remained  at 
the  school. 

"  You  know,  dear,"  Mollie  was  saying,  "  I  rather 
dreaded  going  to  the  Abbey.  I  thought  they  might  be 
sniffy  and  stuck  up.  But  they're  not  a  bit.  I  do 
think  they  are  three  of  the  nicest  girls  I've  ever  met, 
Mother.    Don't  you.?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  they  are  very  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Walter. 
"  But  you  must  be  a  little  careful.  I  think  that  is  what 
the  Vicar's  warning  meant." 

"What,  Mother.?" 

"  Well,  you  know  he  said  that  you  should  be  careful 
about  going  there  too  much — never  without  a  special 
invitation.  He  is  so  kind  and  thoughtful  for  us  that 
I  think  he  must  have  feared  that  they  might  perhaps 
take  you  up  at  first,  as  you  are  the  only  girl  in  the 


VISITORS  75 

place  besides  themselves,  and  then  drop  you.  In  many 
ways  their  life  is  so  different  from  what  ours  can  be 
that  there  might  be  a  danger  of  that,  though  I  don't 
think  they  would  do  it  consciously." 

"  Oh,  no ;  they're  much  too  nice  for  that.  Still,  of 
course,  I  should  hate  to  feel  that  I  was  poking  myself 
in.  Don't  you  think  I  might  go  to  tea  this  afternoon. 
Mother.?  Caroline  did  ask  me,  you  know,  and  I'm  sure 
she  meant  it." 

Mollie  had  been  to  church  alone  that  morning,  and 
the  Grafton  girls  had  taken  her  round  the  garden  of 
the  Abbey  afterwards. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Walter, 
hesitatingly.  "  I  can't  help  wishing  you  had  waited 
for  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Mercer  afterwards,  and  walked 
back  with  them,  as  we  generally  do." 

"  It  would  have  been  so  difficult  to  refuse.  They 
introduced  me  to  Beatrix  and  to  Mr.  Grafton,  and 
they  were  all  so  nice,  and  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  I  should  go  with  them.  I  thought  perhaps  the 
Vicar  and  Mrs.  Mercer  would  have  come  over  too.  He 
likes  them  so  much,  and  says  they  make  him  feel  so 
at  home  there.  He  has  helped  them  a  lot  getting  into 
order." 

"  He  is  one  of  those  men  who  likes  to  help  every- 
body," said  Mrs.  Walter.  "  Nobody  could  possibly 
have  been  kinder  to  us  than  he  has  been,  from  the 
beginning.  We  are  very  fortunate  indeed  to  have 
found  such  a  nice  clergyman  here.  It  might  have  been 
so  different.     We  must  be  especially  careful  not  to  give 


76  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

him  the  slightest  reason  to  think  that  he  doesn't  come 
first  with  us." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  he  and  Mrs.  Mercer  would  always 
be  our  chief  friends  here.  But  you  see,  Mother  dear, 
I've  had  so  few  girl  friends,  and  I  think  these  really 
might  be.  I  love  them  all,  especially  Beatrix.  She's 
sweet,  and  I  believe  she'd  like  to  be  friends.  When 
I  said  I  must  ask  you  first,  she  said  you  couldn't  pos- 
sibly object,  and  I  must  come." 

"  Well,  dear,  of  course,  you  could,  in  the  ordinary 
way.  But  you  know  we  nearly  always  go  to  tea  at  the 
Vicarage  on  Sunday  afternoons.  If  you  had  walked 
home  with  them  they  would  have  been  sure  to  ask  you. 
I  expect  the  Vicar  will,  at  Sunday-school  this  afternoon. 
Wouldn't  it  look  ungracious  if  you  said  you  were 
going  somewhere  else.?" 

Poor  Mollie  could  not  deny  that  it  might,  but 
looked  so  downcast  that  her  mother  suggested  wait- 
ing to  see  if  the  Vicar  did  ask  her,  but  without 
suggesting  that  she  should  accept  the  invitation  if 
he  did. 

Mollie  was  a  good  girl,  and  had  the  reward  which 
does  not  always  attend  goodness.  She  made  up  her 
mind  that  it  would  not  be  right  to  forsake  old  friends 
for  new  ones,  that  she  would  walk  back  with  the  Vicar 
after  Sunday-school  as  usual,  and  if  by  some  fortunate 
chance  he  omitted  to  ask  her  and  her  mother  to  tea 
she  would  then  go  to  the  Abbey. 

The  Vicar  came  out  as  she  passed  his  house  with  his 
Bible  in  his  hand.     "  Well,  Mollie,"  he  said.     "  What 


VISITORS  77 

became  of  you  after  church  this  morning?  I  hope  your 
mother  isn't  unwell." 

"  She  didn't  sleep  well  last  night,  and  I  made  her 
stay  in  bed,"  said  Mollie.     "  But  she's  up  now." 

She  expected  that  the  Vicar's  invitation  would  then 
be  forthcoming,  but  he  said  nothing. 

She  waited  for  him  after  school  as  he  liked  her  to  do, 
but  as  he  came  out  he  said :  "  Well,  I  suppose  you're 
going  home  now,  dear."  He  had  dropped  into  the  way 
of  calling  her  dear  within  a  short  time  of  their  arrival, 
and  she  liked  it.  She  had  never  known  her  own  father, 
nor  any  man  who  used  protecting  or  affectionate  speech 
towards  her.  "  I  must  wait  for  Mrs.  Mercer.  We  are 
going  to  the  Abbey  together." 

Mollie  was  vastly  relieved.  "  Oh,  then,  perhaps  we 
can  go  together,"  she  said.  "  They  asked  me  this 
morning." 

He  did  not  look  so  pleased  as  she  had  thought  he 
would,  for  he  had  always  shown  himself  ready  for  her 
company,  wherever  it  might  be,  and  had  told  her  more 
than  once  that  he  didn't  know  what  he  had  done  for 
company  before  she  came.  "  They  asked  you,  did 
they.?  "  he  said.     "  Didn't  they  ask  your  mother  too?  " 

"  No.  I  went  over  with  them  after  church.  It  was 
the  girls  who  asked  me." 

"  Did  they  ask  you  to  go  over  with  them  after 
church? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  shouldn't  have  gone  without  an  invita- 
tion.   I  remembered  what  you  had  said." 

"  But  I  hope  you  didn't  hang  about  as  if  you  were 


78  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

looking  for  one.  You  know,  Mollie,  you  must  be  very 
careful  about  that  sort  of  thing.  If  these  girls  turn 
out  to  be  thoroughly  nice,  as  I  quite  hope  they  will, 
it  will  be  nice  for  you  to  go  to  the  Abbey  sometimes. 
It  will  make  a  change  in  your  life.  But  you  see  you 
haven't  mixed  with  that  sort  of  people  before,  and 
I  am  very  anxious  that  you  shan't  make  mistakes.  I 
would  rather  you  went  there  first  with  me — or  Mrs. 
Mercer." 

Mollie  felt  some  offence  at  it  being  supposed  possible 
that  she  should  hang  about  for  an  invitation.  But 
she  knew  that  men  were  like  that — clumsy  in  their 
methods  of  expression ;  they  meant  nothing  by  it.  And 
it  was  kind  of  him  to  take  this  interest  in  her  behalf. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  should  be 
careful  not  to  go  unless  they  really  wanted  me.  But 
I'm  sure  they  did  by  the  way  they  asked  me.  If  you 
and  Mrs.  Mercer  are  going  too  that  will  be  all  the 
better." 

"  Ought  you  to  leave  your  mother  alone.?  "  he  asked. 
"  I  quite  thought  you  had  hurried  back  to  her  this 
morning.  If  she  isn't  well,  it  was  a  little  thoughtless, 
wasn't  it,  Mollie,  to  stay  behind  like  that.''  She  might 
have  been  worrying  herself  as  to  what  had  become 
of  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  artlessly.  *'  She  would  have 
thought  I  was  with  you.  I  have  once  or  twice  been  to 
the  Vicarage  after  church  when  she  has  stayed  at  home. 
And  she  didn't  mind  my  going  this  afternoon  a  bit." 

Mrs.  Mercer  was  seen  bearing  down  upon  them.    "  Oh 


VISITORS  79 

well,"  he  said,  not  very  graciously,  **  I  suppose  you 
had  better  come.  But  you  mustn't  let  the  attentions 
of  the  girls  at  the  Abbey  turn  your  head,  Mollie ;  and 
above  all  you  mustn't  get  into  the  way  of  leaving  your 
mother  to  be  with  them.  They  have  asked  Mollie  to 
tea,"  he  said  as  his  wife  came  up.  "  So  we  can  all  go 
together." 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer.  "  I  thought 
you  might  wonder,  dear,  why  we  hadn't  asked  you  and 
Mrs.  Walter  to  the  Vicarage  this  afternoon.  But  you 
see,  Mr.  Grafton  is  only  here  on  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days, and  the  Vicar  has  a  good  many  things  to  talk 
over  with  him ;  so  we  thought  we'd  invite  ourselves  to 
tea  there — at  least,  go  there,  rather  early,  and  if  they 
like  to  ask  us  to  stay  to  tea,  well  they  can." 

"  Really,  my  dear !  "  expostulated  the  Vicar,  "  you 
put  things  in  a  funny  way.  It's  no  more  for  people  like 
ourselves  to  drop  in  at  a  house  like  the  Abbey  and  ask 
for  a  cup  of  tea  than  to  go  to  Mrs.  Walter,  for  in- 
stance." 

"  No,  dear,  of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer  sooth- 
ingly. 

They  went  into  the  park  through  the  hand  gate,  and 
when  they  had  got  a  little  way  along  the  path  an  open 
motor-car  passed  them  a  little  way  off  on  the  road. 
It  was  driven  by  a  girl  in  a  big  tweed  coat,  and  another 
girl  similarly  attired  sat  by  her.  Behind  were  an  old 
lady  and  gentleman  much  befurred,  and  a  third  girl 
on  the  back  seat. 

"  The  Pembertons ! "   said   the  Vicar  in   a   tone   of 


80  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

extreme  annoyance.  "  Now  what  on  earth  do  they 
want  over  here?  They  can't  surely  be  coming  to  pay 
their  first  call  on  a  Sunday,  and  I'm  sure  they  haven't 
called  already  or  I  should  have  heard  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  they  are  just  going  through  the  park," 
said  Mrs.  Mercer,  which  suggestion  her  husband  ac- 
cepted until  they  came  in  sight  of  the  house  and  saw 
the  empty  car  standing  before  it. 

"  Just  like  them  to  pay  a  formal  call  on  a  Sunday !  " 
he  said.  "  I'm  very  annoyed  that  this  should  have  hap- 
pened. I  was  going  to  give  Grafton  a  warning  about 
those  people.  They're  not  the  sort  of  girls  for  his 
girls  to  know — loud  and  slangy  and  horsey!  I  abhor 
that  sort  of  young  woman.  However,  I  suppose  we 
shall  have  to  be  polite  to  them  now  they're  here.  But 
I  don't  want  you  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them, 
Mollie.  I  should  keep  in  the  background  if  I  were 
you,  as  much  as  possible.  And  I  dare  say  they  won't 
stay  very  long." 

They  were  taken  up  to  the  long  gallery,  which  seemed 
to  be  full  of  talk  as  they  entered  it.  It  was  a  chilly 
windy  day,  and  the  two  girls  stood  in  front  of  one  of 
the  fires,  of  which  there  were  two  burning,  while  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pemberton  were  sitting  by  the  other. 
All  four  of  them  were  talking  at  once,  in  loud  clear 
voices,  and  there  were  also  present,  besides  the  Grafton 
family  and  Worthing,  two  young  men,  one  of  whom 
was  talking  louder  than  anybody. 

The  entrance  of  the  Vicar  had  the  effect  of  stopping 
the  flow  for  a  moment,  but  it  was  resumed  again  almost 


VISITORS  81 

immediately,  and  was  never  actually  discontinued  by 
the  two  young  men,  who  were  talking  to  Caroline,  until 
she  left  them  to  greet  the  new  arrivals. 

"  Ah,  that's  right ;  I'm  glad  you've  come,"  said 
Grafton.  "  I  suppose  you  know  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton.  We've  just  discovered  they're  old  friends  of 
my  wife's  people." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  that  we've  ever  met  before,"  said 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  addressing  herself  to  the  Vicar,  who 
stood  awkwardly  beside  her.  She  had  the  air  of  not 
minding  to  whom  she  addressed  herself  as  long  as  she 
was  not  asked  to  discontinue  addressing  somebody. 
"  I  suppose  you're  the  clergyman  here.  It's  been  rather 
beyond  our  beat,  you  know,  until  we  got  the  car,  and, 
of  course,  there  hasn't  been  anybody  here  for  years. 
Nice  to  have  the  place  occupied  again,  isn't  it?  Must 
make  a  lot  of  difference  to  you,  I  should  think.  And 
such  nice  people  too!  Yes,  it's  odd,  isn't  it?  Mr. 
Francis  Parry  came  to  spend  the  week-end  with  us — 
my  son  brought  him — and  he  asked  us  if  we  knew  the 
Graf  tons  who  had  just  bought  this  place,  and  we  said 
we  didn't  but  were  going  to  call  on  them  when  they'd 
got  settled  in;  and  then  suddenly  I  remembered  and 
said :  '  Didn't  one  of  the  Graf  tons  marry  Lord  Hands- 
worth's  sister,  and  she  died  ?  '  Well,  I've  known  the 
Handsworths  ever  since  I  was  a  girl,  and  that's  a  good 
many  years  ago,  as  you  may  imagine.  You  needn't 
trouble  to  contradict  me,  you  know." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sharp  smile.  She  was  a 
hard-bitten  old  lady,  with  a  face  full  of  wrinkles  in  a 


82  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

skin  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  out  in  the  sun  and 
rain  for  years,  as  indeed  it  had,  and  a  pair  of  bright 
searching  eyes.  The  Vicar  returned  her  smile.  One 
would  have  said  that  she  had  already  made  a  conquest 
of  him,  in  spite  of  his  previous  disapprobation,  and  her 
having  taken  no  particular  pains  to  do  so. 

"  Was  Mrs.  Grafton  Lord  Handsworth's  sister.''  "  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  Ain't  I  telling  you  so.''  Ruth  Handsworth 
she  was,  but  I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  her.  She  was 
of  the  second  family,  and  I  never  saw  much  of  the  old 
man  after  he  married  again.  Well,  Francis  Parry  sug- 
gested walking  over  with  my  son.  He's  a  friend  of 
these  people.  So  we  thought  we  might  as  well  drop 
ceremony  and  all  come.  Have  you  got  a  clothing-club 
in  this  village.''  " 

In  the  meantime,  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place, 
old  Mr.  Pemberton  was  giving  his  host  some  informa- 
tion about  the  previous  inhabitants  of  the  Abbey.  He 
was  rather  deaf,  and  addressed  his  opponent  in  con- 
versation as  if  his  disability  were  the  common  lot  of 
humankind,  which  probably  accounted  for  the  high 
vocal  tone  of  the  Pemberton  family  in  general.  "  When 
I  was  a  young  fellow,"  he  was  saying,  "  there  was  no 
house  in  the  neighb'r'ood  more  popular  than  this. 
There  were  four  Brett  girls,  and  all  of  them  as  pretty 
as  paint.  All  we  young  fellows  from  twenty  miles 
round  and  more  were  quarrelling  about  them.  They 
all  stuck  together  and  wouldn't  look  at  a  soul  of  us — 
not  for  years — and  then  they  all  married  in  a  bunch, 


VISITORS  83 

and  not  a  single  one  of  them  into  the  county.  I  was  in 
love  with  the  eldest  myself,  but  I  was  only  a  boy  at 
Eton  and  she  was  twenty-four.  If  it  had  been  the 
other  way  about  we  might  have  kept  one  of  them. 
Good  old  times  those  were.  The  young  fellows  used  to 
ride  over  here,  or  drive  their  dog-carts,  which  were 
just  beginning  to  come  in  in  those  days,  and  those 
who  couldn't  afford  horseflesh  used  to  walk.  There 
were  one  or  two  sporting  parsons  in  the  neighb'r'ood 
then,  and  some  nice  young  fellows  from  the  Rectories. 
Sir  Charles  Dawbarn,  the  judge — his  father  was  rector 
of  Feltham  when  I  was  a  young  fellow.  He  wanted  to 
marry  the  second  one,  but  she  wouldn't  look  at  him. 
Nice  fellow  he  was  too.  They  don't  seem  to  send  us 
the  parsons  they  used  to  in  the  old  days.  We've  got 
a  fellow  at  Grays  goes  about  in  a  cassock,  just  like  a 
priest.  Behaves  like  one  too.  Asked  my  wife  when 
he  first  came  if  sh'd  ever  been  to  confession.  Ha !  ha ! 
ha!  She  told  him  what  she  thought  of  him.  But  he's 
not  a  bad  fellow,  and  we  get  on  all  right.  What  sort 
of  a  fellow  have  you  got  here?  They  can  make  them- 
selves an  infernal  nuisance  sometimes  if  they're  not  the 
right  sort;  and  not  many  of  them  are  nowadays,  at 
least  in  these  parts." 

"  That's  our  Vicar  talking  to  Mrs.  Pemberton,"  said 
Grafton  in  as  low  a  voice  as  he  thought  would  pene- 
trate. 

"Eh!  What!"  shouted  the  old  man.  "  Gobbless 
my  soul !  Yes.  I  didn't  notice  he  was  a  parson.  Hope 
he  didn't  hear  what  I  said.     Hate  to  hurt  anybody's 


84.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

feelings.  Let's  get  further  away.  I've  had  enough 
of  this  fire." 

Miss  Waterhouse  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Mercer  by  one 
of  the  windows,  and  all  the  young  people  had  congre- 
gated round  the  further  fire-place.  The  two  older 
men  joined  them,  and  presently  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  going  over  the  house  to  see  what  had  been  done 
with  it. 

Mollie  found  herself  with  Beatrix,  who,  as  she  told 
her  mother  afterwards,  was  very  sweet  to  her,  not  allow- 
ing her  to  feel  out  of  it,  though  there  were  so  many 
people  there,  and  she  was  the  least  important  of  all 
of  them.  She  was  not  alone  with  Beatrix  however. 
Bertie  Pemberton  stuck  close  to  them,  and  took  the 
leading  part  in  the  conversation,  though  Beatrix  did 
her  share,  with  a  dexterous  unflustered  ability  which 
Mollie,  who  said  very  little,  could  not  but  admire.  She 
judged  Bertie  Pemberton  to  be  immensely  struck  with 
Beatrix,  and  did  not  wonder  at  it.  She  herself  was 
beginning  to  have  that  enthusiastic  admiration  for  her 
which  generous  girls  accord  to  others  more  beautiful 
and  more  gifted  than  themselves.  Everything  about 
Beatrix  pleased  her — her  lovely  face  and  delicious 
colouring,  the  grace  of  her  young  form,  the  way  she 
did  her  hair,  the  way  she  wore  her  pretty  clothes.  And 
she  was  as  '  nice  '  as  she  was  beautiful,  with  no  affecta- 
tions about  her,  and  no  '  airs,'  which  she  very  well  might 
have  given  herself,  considering  how  richly  she  was  en- 
dowed by  nature  and  circumstance.  That  Bertie  Pem- 
berton seemed  to  admire  her  in  much  the  same  way  as 


VISITORS  85 

Mollie  herself  disposed  her  to  like  him,  though  her 
liking  was  somewhat  touched  with  awe,  for  he  was  of 
the  sort  of  young  man  whom  Mollie  in  her  retired 
life  had  looked  upon  as  of  a  superior  order,  with 
ways  that  would  be  difficult  to  cope  with  if  chance 
should  ever  bring  one  of  them  into  her  own  orbit.  He 
was,  in  fact,  a  good-natured  young  man,  employed 
temporarily  with  stocks  and  shares  until  he  should  suc- 
ceed to  the  paternal  acres,  of  the  pattern  of  other 
young  men  who  had  received  a  conventionally  ex- 
pensive education  and  gained  a  large  circle  of  ac- 
quaintances thereby,  if  no  abiding  interest  in  the 
classical  studies  which  had  formed  its  basis.  He  seemed 
to  be  well  satisfied  with  himself,  and  indeed  there  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  been,  since  so  far 
there  had  been  little  that  he  had  wanted  in  life  which 
he  had  not  obtained.  If  he  should  chance  to  want 
Beatrix  in  the  near  future,  which  Mollie,  looking  for- 
ward as  she  listened  and  observed,  thought  not  un- 
likely, there  might  be  some  obstacles  to  surmount,  but 
at  this  stage  there  was  nothing  to  daunt  him.  He 
handled  the  situation  in  the  way  dictated  by  his  tem- 
perament and  experience,  kept  up  a  free  flow  of  good- 
humoured  chaff,  and  under  cover  of  it  expressed  ad- 
miration that  had  to  be  fenced  with,  but  never  went 
beyond  the  point  at  which  it  would  have  been  necessary 
for  his  satisfaction  that  a  third  party  should  not  have 
been  present.  As  Beatrix,  with  her  arm  in  Mollie's, 
took  pains  to  include  her  in  the  conversation,  he 
couldn't  ignore  Mollie ;  nor  did  he  appear  to  wish  to  do 


86  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

so.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  too,  and  he  was  only  using 
his  ordinary  methods  with  a  pretty  girl.  If  she  would 
have  found  a  difficulty  in  fencing  with  him  in  the  man- 
ner he  would  have  expected  of  her  had  they  been  alone 
together,  she  was  spared  the  exercise,  as  Beatrix 
lightly  took  her  defence  on  her  own  shoulders. 

As  Bertie  Pemberton  did  not  lower  his  voice  below 
the  family  pitch,  Mollie  was  a  little  anxious  lest  some  of 
his  speeches  should  come  to  the  ear  of  the  Vicar,  who 
was  not  far  removed  from  them  as  they  started  on  their 
tour  of  investigation.  He  seemed,  however,  to  have 
found  an  unexpected  satisfaction  in  the  society  of 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  on  whom  he  was  in  close  attendance, 
with  a  back  the  contour  of  which  expressed  deference. 
She  appeared  to  be  giving  him  advice  upon  certain  mat- 
ters in  connection  with  his  own  parish,  and  drawing 
upon  his  sympathy  in  matters  connected  with  her  own. 
Just  before  Bertie  Pemberton  managed  to  let  the  rest 
of  the  party  get  a  room  or  two  ahead,  by  showing  great 
interest  in  the  old  books  with  which  the  library  was 
furnished,  Mollie  heard  her  say  to  him  in  her  carrying 
voice :  "  Well,  you  must  come  over  and  see  it  for  your- 
self. I  don't  know  why  we've  never  met  you ;  but  Abing- 
ton  is  rather  beyond  our  beat,  unless  there's  something 
or  somebody  to  come  for.  It's  such  a  pleasure  to  meet 
a  sensible  clergyman.    I  wish  there  were  more  of  them.'* 

Mollie  was  glad  that  her  friend  had  impressed  the 
loud-speaking  rather  formidable  lady  in  this  way,  but 
was  inclined  to  wonder  what  he  would  do  with  the  in- 
vitation, for  he  knew  what  he  thought  of  the  Pember- 


VISITORS  87 

tons ;  and  he  had  so  often  announced  that  he  would 
have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  such  people,  and 
was  glad  that  they  were  so  far  away.  She  had  heard 
the  story  of  Bertie  Pemberton's  rudeness  to  him,  but 
saw  now  how  it  might  have  been.  Bertie's  free  manner 
might  easily  be  taken  for  rudeness  by  somebody  who 
did  not  know  him.  No  doubt  there  have  been  '  faults 
on  both  sides.'  She  hoped  that  the  Vicar's  objections 
to  the  Pemberton  family  would  not  lead  him  to  refuse 
them  another  chance.  If  there  was  no  more  harm  in 
the  Pemberton  girls  than  there  apparently  was  in  their 
brother  he  would  find  that  he  had  misjudged  them. 

The  Pemberton  girls — Nora,  Effie  and  Kate — were 
cut  out  of  the  corresponding  female  pattern  to 
their  brother's.  They  were  good-natured  and  well 
satisfied  with  themselves.  But  their  self-satisfaction 
did  not  prevent  them  from  taking  a  lively  inter- 
est in  other  people,  and  their  good-nature  made 
them  known  to  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances  as 
*  good  pals.'  This  reputation,  though  leading  to 
much  pleasant  intercourse  with  members  of  either  sex, 
is  not  the  most  favourable  to  matrimonial  adjustments, 
and  the  youngest  of  them  had  already  reached  the 
middle  twenties.  But  the  shadow  of  spinsterhood  had 
hardly  yet  begun  to  throw  itself  across  their  breezy 
path.  With  their  horses  and  their  golf,  their  visits  to 
other  country  houses  and  sometimes  to  London,  their 
father's  large  house,  seldom  entirely  without  guests 
in  it,  and  above  all  their  always  increasing  friendships, 
they  had  all  that  they  wanted  at  present.     Out  of  all 


88  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

their  *  pals  '  there  would  be  some  day  one  for  each 
of  them  in  whose  company  they  would  continue  the 
lives  that  they  now  found  so  pleasant.  Almost  any- 
body would  do,  if  he  was  a  good  pal  and  had  enough 
money.  Falling  in  love  was  outside  their  beat.  But 
it  was  probable  that  if  one  of  them  ever  did  fall  in  love, 
the  other  two  would  follow  her  suit.  They  were  human 
enough  in  their  primitive  instincts. 

Barbara  accompanied  Nora  and  Kate.  She  took  a 
keen  interest  in  them  as  types  new  to  her,  and  they 
thought  her  a  bright  and  modest  child  whose  tastes 
for  a  country  life  were  worth  cultivating.  "  You  must 
hack  about  as  much  as  you  can  till  next  season,  and 
get  used  to  it,"  said  Kate.  "  Then  we'll  take  you  out 
cubbing,  and  by  the  time  regular  hunting  begins  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  sit  as  tight  as  any  of  us.  It  isn't 
a  tiptop  country,  but  you  can  get  a  lot  of  fun  out 
of  it." 

"  Better  than  jogging  about  in  the  Park,  anyhow," 
said  Nora.  "  I  wouldn't  live  in  London  if  you  paid 
me." 

EfBe  Pemberton  and  Bertie's  friend  Francis  Parry 
were  conducted  by  Caroline.  Francis  was  of  the  same 
type  as  Bertie — smooth-haired,  well-dressed  and  self- 
confident,  but  on  a  quieter  plane.  He  had  been  one  of 
Caroline's  regular  dancing  partners,  had  dined  some- 
times at  the  house  in  London,  and  stayed  sometimes  in 
the  same  houses  in  the  country.  She  liked  him,  and  had 
found  him  more  interesting  than  most  of  the  young  men 
in  whose  company  she  had  disported  herself.     He  had 


VISITORS  89 

tastes  somewhat  similar  to  hers,  and  it  was  a  pleasure 
to  point  out  to  him  what  she  had  done  to  the  house,  and 
to  receive  his  commendation.  Effie  Pemberton,  who 
would  much  rather  have  been  looking  over  the  stables, 
found  herself  rather  de  trop,  and  presently  allied  her- 
self to  Worthing,  to  whom  she  said  with  a  jerk  of  the 
thumb :  "  I  think  it's  a  case  there." 

But  it  was  not  a  case,  at  least  as  far  as  Caroline 
was  concerned. 


CHAPTER    VII 

YOUNG  GEORGE 

Young  George,  commonly  called  Bunting,  arrived 
home  in  the  week  before  Easter.  He  was  full  of  excite- 
ment at  the  new  state  of  affairs,  from  which  he  an- 
ticipated a  more  enjoyable  life  than  had  hitherto  fallen 
to  his  lot,  though  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
holidays  either  in  the  country  houses  of  relations  or  in 
the  country  with  his  own  family.  But  to  have  a  home 
of  one's  own  in  the  country,  to  which  one  could  invite 
chosen  friends,  with  a  horse  of  one's  own,  kennel  facili- 
ties, games  to  be  found  or  invented  immediately  out- 
side the  premises,  and  all  the  sport  that  the  country 
afforded  ready  to  hand — this  was  far  better  than  stay- 
ing in  other  people's  houses  in  the  country,  pleasant  as 
that  had  been,  and  certainly  far  better  than  being  con- 
fined to  a  house  in  London,  which  presented  no  attrac- 
tions whatever  except  in  the  one  item  of  plays  to  be 
seen. 

He  arrived  just  in  time  for  lunch,  and  could  hardly 
give  himself  time  to  eat  it,  so  anxious  was  he  to  explore. 
He  disappeared  immediately  afterwards,  with  Barbara, 
and  was  seen  at  intervals  hurrying  here  and  there  dur- 
ing the  afternoon,  an  active  eager  figure  in  his  grey 
flannel  suit  and  straw  hat,  and  one  upon  which  his 
elder  sisters  looked  with  pride  and  pleasure. 

90 


YOUNG  GEORGE  91 

"  It  is  jolly  to  have  him,"  said  Caroline,  as  he  ran 
past  them,  sitting  out  in  the  garden,  on  his  way  towards 
the  fish  ponds,  carrying  a  net  for  some  purpose  that 
seemed  to  him  of  the  utmost  importance  for  the  mo- 
ment, and  accompanied  by  Barbara  and  four  dogs. 

"  The  darling !  "  said  Beatrix  affectionately.  She 
and  Caroline  had  done  their  best  to  spoil  him  since  his 
earliest  years,  and  were  inclined  to  look  upon  him  now 
as  a  pet  and  a  plaything,  though  his  independ- 
ence of  mind  and  habit  somewhat  discouraged  the 
attitude. 

He  and  Barbara  put  in  an  appearance  at  tea-time, 
rather  warm,  rather  dishevelled,  but  entirely  happy. 
They  were  going  through  one  of  those  spells  of  weather 
which  sometimes  seem  to  have  strayed  from  June  into 
April,  when  leaf  and  bud  are  expanding  almost  visibly 
under  the  influence  of  the  hot  sun,  and  promise  and 
fulfilment  are  so  mixed  that  to  turn  from  one  to  the 
other  is  to  get  one  of  the  happiest  sensations  that 
nature  affords.  A  broad  gravel  path  ran  alongside 
the  southeast  corner  of  the  house,  ending  in  a  yew- 
enclosed  space  furnished  with  white-painted  seats  round 
a  large  table.  Here  tea  was  set  in  shelter  from  sun  and 
wind,  and  within  sight  of  some  of  the  quiet  beauty  of 
the  formal  garden,  which  the  gay-coloured  flowers  of 
spring  were  already  turning  into  a  place  of  delight. 
Even  Young  George,  not  yet  of  an  age  to  be  satisfied 
with  horticultural  beauty,  said  that  it  was  jolly,  as  he 
looked  round  him  after  satisfying  the  first  pangs  of 
appetite,  and  did  not  immediately  rush  away  to  more 


92  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

active  pleasures  when  he  had  satisfied  the  remainder  of 
them. 

There  was,  indeed,  a  great  deal  to  talk  about,  in  the 
time  that  could  be  spared  for  talk.  A  great  deal  had 
to  be  told  to  this  sympathetic  bunch  of  sisters  about  his 
own  experiences,  and  amusement  to  be  extracted  from 
them  as  to  theirs. 

Every  family  has  its  own  chosen  method  of  inter- 
course. That  of  the  Graftons  was  to  encourage  one 
another  to  humour  of  observation  and  expression. 
When  one  or  another  of  them  was  '  in  form  '  they  had  as 
appreciative  an  audience  among  the  rest  as  they  could 
have  gained  from  their  warmest  admirers  outside. 
Young  George  occasionally  gave  bright  examples  of 
the  sort  of  speech  that  was  encouraged  among  them, 
and  was  generously  applauded  when  he  did  so,  not  only 
because  his  sisters  loved  and  admired  him  so  much,  but 
because  it  was  gratifying  to  see  him  expanding  to  the 
pains  they  had  taken  with  his  education. 

"  There's  a  bloke  near  here  who  came  last  half,"  he 
said,  when  he  had  given  them  various  pieces  of  intelli- 
gence which  he  thought  might  interest  them.  "  His 
name's  Beckley.  I  didn't  know  him  very  well  till  we 
came  down  in  the  train  together,  but  he's  rather  a 
sportsman;  he  asked  a  ticket  collector  at  Westhamp- 
ton  Junction  to  telegraph  to  his  people  that  the  train 
was  late,  but  he  hoped  to  be  in  time  for  his  uncle's 
funeral.     Do  you  know  his  people.''  " 

"  The  Beckleys !  Oh,  yes,  they  live  at  Feltham 
Hall,"  said  Caroline.     "  Mrs.  Beckley  and  Vera  called 


YOUNG  GEORGE  93 

last  week,  and  the  Dragon  and  I  called  back.  Vera 
told  me  about  Jimmy.  They  find  him  difficult  to  cope 
with.  They  don't  adore  him  as  much  as  we  do  you, 
Bunting." 

"  He  doesn't  adore  them  much,"  said  Young  George. 
"  He  told  me  that  it  Avas  a  bore  having  a  lot  of  sisters, 
and  he'd  swop  the  lot  for  a  twin  brother." 

"  Odious  little  beast !  "  said  Beatrix.  "  Why  a  twin 
brother.?" 

"  Oh,  because  he  says  he's  the  nicest  fellow  himself 
that  he  knows,  and  he'd  like  to  have  somebody  of  the 
same  sort  to  do  things  with.  He's  really  a  comic  bloke. 
I'm  sure  you'll  like  him.  I  expect  he'll  be  over  here 
pretty  often.  I  don't  suppose  he  really  meant  it  about 
his  sisters." 

"  Then  he  oughtn't  to  have  said  it,  just  for  the  sake 
of  being  funny,"  said  Caroline.  "  I  hope  you  weren't 
led  into  saying  that  yours  were  a  bore,  Bunting." 

"  No,"  said  Young  George.  "  I  said  you  weren't  bad 
sorts,  and  I  thought  he'd  like  you  all  right  when  he 
saw  you.  He  said  he'd  come  over  some  time  and  make 
an  inspection." 

"  We'll  inspect  him  when  he  does  come,"  said  Bar- 
bara. "  The  Beckley  girls  are  rather  bread  and  but- 
tery. They've  got  pigtails  and  a  Mademoiselle,  and  go 
for  walks  in  the  country.  The  Dragon  and  I  met  them 
once,  and  we  had  a  little  polite  conversation  before  they 
agreed  to  go  their  way  and  we  went  ours." 

"  Barbara  dear,  I  don't  think  you  should  get  into 
the  way  of  criticising  everybody,"  said  Miss  Water- 


94  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

house.     "  I  thought  they  were  particularly  nice  girls." 

"  Yes,  darling,  you  would,"  said  Barbara.  "  If  I 
wore  a  pigtail  and  said  au  revoir  instead  of  good- 
bye, you'd  think  I  was  a  particularly  nice  girl.  But 
I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  love  me  as  much  as  you  do." 

"  Vera  isn't  bread  and  buttery,"  said  Caroline, 
"  though  she's  rather  quiet.  Jimmy  seems  to  have  all 
the  high  spirits  of  the  family.  I  told  her  we'd  deal 
with  him  if  she  sent  him  over  here.  We'd  broken 
Bunting  in,  and  we'd  break  him  in  for  her." 

"  Any  other  nice  people  about  to  play  with.^  "  asked 
Bunting.  "  I  suppose  you've  got  to  know  them  all 
now." 

"  I  wrote  to  you  about  the  Breezy  Bills  and  the 
Zebras,  and  Lord  Salisbury,"  said  Barbara.  "  I  won- 
der Lord  Salisbury  isn't  here.  He  generally  looks  in 
about  tea-time, — or  lunch-time,  or  dinner-time." 

"  Barbara  darling,  you  mustn't  get  into  the  way  of 
exaggerating,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse. 

"  And  I  told  you  about  Francis  Parry  bringing  the 
Pembertons  over,"  said  Caroline,  "  and  about  Bertie 
taking  a  fancy  to  B." 

"  Beautiful  bountiful  Bertie !  "  said  Young  George, 
by  way  of  comment. 

"  He  came  over  again,"  said  Beatrix,  "  and  wanted 
to  lay  out  golf  links  for  us.  He  said  he  should  be 
down  for  a  week  at  Easter  and  it  would  give  him  some- 
thing to  do.  I  am  sure  he  is  an  admirer — the  first 
I've  had.  Bunting  darling,  I'm  really  grown  up  at 
last." 


YOUNG  GEORGE  95 

"  You'll  have  lots  more,  old  girl,"  said  Young  George 
loyally. 

"  Now  I'm  getting  on  a  bit  myself,  and  see  other 
fellows'  sisters,  I  can  tell  you  you're  a  good-looking 
crowd.  Barbara's  the  most  plain-headed,  but  she's 
better  than  the  average.  She  only  wants  a  bit  of 
furnishing  out.     Who  else  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"  Lady  Mansergh  from  Wilborough,"  said  Caro- 
line. "  We  think  she  must  have  a  past,  because  her 
hair  is  so  very  golden,  and  she  speaks  with  a  slight 
Cockney  accent." 

"  And  because  Lord  Salisbury  disapproves  of  her," 
added  Beatrix. 

"  Lord  Salisbury  disapproves  of  everybody,"  said 
Barbara.  "  He  wants  to  keep  us  to  himself.  I'm  his 
little  sunbeam,  you  know,  Bunting.  I'm  going  to  help 
decorate  the  church  for  Easter." 

"  We  are  all  going  to  do  that,"  said  Miss  Water- 
house,  "  and  Mr.  Mercer  is  quite  justified  in  asking  for 
that  sort  of  help  from  us.  You  should  not  get  into 
the  way  of  criticising  everything  he  does,  Barbara 
darling." 

"  She  always  sticks  up  for  him,  because  she  can't 
abide  him,"  said  Barbara.  "  I  liked  Lady  Mansergh. 
She  was  very  affectionate.  She  patted  my  cheek  and 
said  it  did  her  good  to  see  such  nice  pretty  girls  about 
the  place.  She  said  it  to  me,  so  you  see.  Bunting, 
I'm  not  so  plain-headed  as  you  tliink.  If  ever  Caroline 
and  B  are  removed,  by  marriage  or  death,  you'll  see 
how  I  shall  shine." 


96  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  Barbara  dear,  don't  talk  about  death  in  that  un- 
feeling way,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse.  "  It  is  not  prettj 
at  all." 

Old  Jarvis  came  out  of  the  house  at  that  moment 
followed  by  the  Vicar,  whom  he  announced  by  name 
as  solemnly  as  if  he  had  never  seen  him  before.  Jarvis 
did  not  like  the  Vicar,  and  adopted  towards  him  an 
air  of  impregnable  respect,  refusing  to  be  treated  as 
a  fellow  human  being,  and  giving  monosyllabic  answers 
to  his  attempts  at  conversation  as  he  preceded  him  in 
stately  fashion  on  his  numerous  calls  to  the  morning- 
room,  which  was  seldom  used  except  just  before  dinner, 
or  the  drawing-room,  which  was  never  used  at  all.  From 
the  first  he  had  never  permitted  him  "  just  to  run  up 
and  find  the  young  ladies,"  or  to  dispense  with  any 
formality  that  he  could  bind  him  to,  though  Worthing 
he  always  received  with  a  smiling  welcome,  accepted 
and  returned  his  words  of  greeting,  and  took  him 
straight  up  to  the  long  gallery  if  the  family  was  there, 
or  told  him  if  they  were  in  the  garden.  The  morning- 
room  opened  into  the  garden,  and  the  Vicar,  hearing 
voices  outside,  had  followed  him  out.  Jarvis  was  ex- 
tremely annoyed  with  himself  that  he  had  not  shown 
him  into  the  drawing-room,  which  was  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house,  but  did  not  allow  his  feelings  to  appear. 

The  Vicar  came  forward  with  an  air  of  proprietary 
friendship.  "  Tea  out  of  doors  in  April !  "  he  said. 
"What  an  original  family  you  are,  to  be  sure!  Ah, 
my  young  friend,  I  think  I  can  guess  who  you  are." 

"  Young  George,  commonly  known  as  Bunting,"  said 


YOUNG  GEORGE  97 

Barbara  by  way  of  introduction.  None  of  them  ever 
showed  him  what  desolation  his  visits  brought  them, 
and  in  spite  of  signs  to  the  contrary  that  would  not 
have  escaped  a  man  of  less  self-sufficiency  he  still  con- 
sidered himself  as  receiving  a  warm  welcome  at  the 
Abbey  whenever  he  chose  to  put  in  an  appearance. 

Young  George  blinked  at  his  method  of  address,  but 
rose  and  shook  hands  with  him  politely.  The  Vicar  put 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  gave  him  a  little  shake. 
"  We  must  be  friends,  you  and  I,"  he  said.  "  I  like 
boys,  and  it  isn't  so  very  long  since  I  was  one  myself, 
though  I  dare  say  I  seem  a  very  old  sort  of  person  to 
all  you  young  people." 

Young  George  blinked  again.  "  What  an  appall- 
ing creature !  "  was  the  comment  he  made  up  for  later 
use.  But  he  did  not  even  meet  Barbara's  significant 
look,  and  stood  aside  for  the  visitor  to  enter  the  circle 
round  the  table. 

"  Now,  young  lady,  if  I'm  not  too  late  for  a  cup  of 
tea,"  said  the  Vicar,  seating  himself  by  Caroline,  after 
he  had  shaken  hands  all  round  with  appropriate  com- 
ment, "  I  shall  be  glad  of  it.  You  always  have  such 
delicious  teas  here.  I'm  afraid  I'm  sometimes  tempted 
to  look  in  more  often  than  I  should  otherwise  on  that 
account  alone." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  Mrs.  Mercer?"  asked  Miss 
Waterhouse.     "  We  haven't  seen  her  for  some  days." 

Miss  Waterhouse  hardly  ever  failed  to  suggest  Mrs. 
Mercer  as  his  expected  companion  when  he  put  in  his 
appearances  at  tea-time.    It  was  beginning  to  occur  to 


98  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

him  that  Miss  Waterhouse  was  something  of  the  Dragon 
that  he  had  heard  his  young  friends  call  her,  and  had 
once  playfully  called  her  himself,  though  without  the 
success  that  he  had  anticipated  from  his  pleasantry. 
He  was  inclined  to  resent  her  presence  in  the  family 
circle  of  which  she  seemed  to  him  so  unsuitable  a  mem- 
ber. He  prided  himself  upon  getting  on  so  well  with 
young  people,  and  these  young  Graftons  were  so  easy 
to  get  on  with,  up  to  a  point.  The  point  would  have 
been  passed  and  that  intimacy  which  he  always  just 
seemed  to  miss  with  them  would  have  been  his  if  it  had 
not  always  been  for  this  stiff  unsympathetic  governess. 
She  was  always  there  and  always  took  part  in  the 
conversation,  and  always  spoilt  it,  when  he  could  have 
made  it  so  intimate  and  entertaining.  Miss  Water- 
house  had  to  be  treated  with  respect,  though.  He  had 
tried  ignoring  her,  as  the  governess,  who  would  be 
grateful  for  an  occasional  kindly  word;  but  it  had  not 
worked.  She  refused  to  be  ignored,  and  he  could  hardly 
ever  get  hold  of  the  girls,  really  to  make  friends,  with- 
out her. 

*'  Well,  I  was  on  my  way  home,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
been  visiting  since  lunch-time.  I  have  been  right  to 
the  far  end  of  the  parish  to  see  a  poor  old  woman  who 
is  bedridden,  but  so  good  and  patient  that  she  is  a 
lesson  to  us  all."  He  turned  to  Caroline.  "  I  wonder 
if  you  would  walk  up  to  Burnt  Green  with  me  some 
afternoon  and  see  her.  I  was  telling  her  about  you, 
and  I  know  what  pleasure  it  would  give  her  to  see  a 
bright  young  face  like  yours.     I'm  sure,  if  you  only 


I 


YOUNG  GEORGE  99 

sat  by  her  bedside  and  talked  to  her  it  would  do  her 
good.     She  is  so  lonely,  poor  old  soul !  " 

He  spoke  very  earnestly.  Caroline  looked  at  him  with 
dislike  tingeing  her  expression,  though  she  was  not  aware 
of  it.  But  Miss  Waterhouse  replied,  before  she  could 
do  so.  "  If  you  will  tell  us  her  name  and  where  to 
find  her,  Mr.  Mercer,  we  shall  be  glad  to  go  and  see 
her  sometimes." 

He  gave  the  required  information,  half-unwillingly, 
as  it  seemed;  but  this  lady  was  so  very  insistent  in  her 
quiet  way.  "  Mollie  Walter  comes  visiting  with  me 
sometimes,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  say,  you  know,  that 
sick  people  are  not  pleased  to  see  their  clergyman  when 
he  calls,  but  I  am  not  too  proud  to  say  that  a  sym- 
pathetic young  girl  often  does  more  good  at  a  bedside 
than  even  the  clergyman." 

"  I  should  think  anybody  would  be  pleased  to  see 
Mollie,"  said  Beatrix.  "If  I  were  ill  she  is  just  the 
sort  of  person  I  should  like  to  see." 

"Better  than  the  clergyman?"  enquired  the  Vicar 
archly.     "  Now  be  careful  how  you  answer." 

Beatrix  turned  her  head  away  indifferently.  Young 
George,  who  was  afflicted  to  the  depths  of  his  soul  by 
the  idea  of  this  proffered  intimacy,  said,  awkwardly 
enough  but  with  intense  meaning:  "  My  sisters  are  not 
used  to  go  visiting  with  clergymen,  sir.  I  don't  think 
my  father  would  like  it  for  them." 

The  Vicar  showed  himself  completely  disconcerted, 
and  stared  at  Young  George  with  open  eyes  and  half- 
open   mouth.      The   boy   was    cramming  himself   with 


100  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

bread  and  butter,  and  his  face  was  red.  With  his 
tangled  hair,  and  clothes  that  his  late  exertions  had 
made  untidy,  he  looked  a  mere  child.  But  there  was  no 
mistaking  his  hostility,  nor  the  awkward  fact  that  here 
was  another  obstacle  to  desired  intimacy  with  this 
agreeable  family. 

It  was  so  very  unexpected.  The  Vicar  had  thought 
himself  quite  successful,  with  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  his  few  kindly  words,  in  impressing  himself  upon 
this  latest  and  very  youthful  member  of  it  as  a  de- 
sirable friend  of  the  family.  And  behold !  he  had  made 
an  enemy.  For  Young  George's  objection  to  his  sisters' 
visiting  with  clergymen  in  general  was  so  obviously 
intended  to  be  taken  as  an  objection  to  their  visiting 
with  this  one.    That  was  made  plain  by  his  attitude. 

Miss  Waterhouse  solved  the  awkward  situation. 
*'  Visiting  sick  people  in  the  country  is  not  like  visit- 
ing people  in  the  slums  of  London,  Bunting  dear.  Mr. 
Mercer  would  let  us  know  if  there  were  any  danger  of 
infection.  It  would  be  better,  though,  I  think,  if  we 
were  to  pay  our  visits  separately." 

There  was  to  be  no  doubt  about  that,  at  any  rate. 
Miss  Waterhouse  was  hardly  less  anno3'ed  than  Young 
George  at  the  invitation  that  had  been  given,  and  its 
impertinence  was  not  to  be  salved  over  however  much 
it  was  to  be  desired  that  dislike  should  not  be  too  openly 
expressed. 

Nor  did  Caroline  or  Beatrix  wish  to  be  made  the  sub- 
ject of  discussion.  They  were  quite  capable  of  staving 
off  inconvenient  advances,  and  preferred  to  do  it  by 


YOUNG  GEORGE  101 

lighter  methods  than  those  used  by  Young  George,  and 
to  get  some  amusement  out  of  it  besides.  Carohne 
laughed,  and  said :  "  My  darling  infant,  if  we  get 
measles  or  chicken-pox  you  might  catch  them  too,  and 
then  you  wouldn't  have  to  go  back  to  school  so  soon." 

Young  George  had  made  his  protest,  and  it  had  cost 
him  something  to  do  it.  His  traditions  included  polite- 
ness towards  a  guest,  and  he  would  only  have  broken 
them  under  strong  provocation.  So,  although  he  was 
still  feeling  a  blind  hatred  against  this  one,  he  did  not 
reply  that  his  objection  was  not  influenced  by  the  fear 
of  infectious  disease,  but  mumbled  instead  that  he  did 
not  want  to  miss  the  first  days  of  the  summer  half. 

The  Vicar  had  somewhat  recovered  himself.  His  self- 
conceit  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  accept  a  snub,  how- 
ever directly  administered,  if  it  could  be  made  to 
appear  in  any  way  not  meant  for  a  snub.  "  Well,  it 
is  true  that  one  has  to  be  a  little  careful  about  infection 
sometimes,"  he  said.  "  But  I  know  of  none  anywhere 
about  at  present.  I  have  to  risk  it  myself  in  the  course 
of  my  duty,  but  I  am  always  careful  about  it  for  others. 
I  had  to  warn  Mollie  off  certain  cottages,  when  she  first 
came  here.  She  has  been  such  a  willing  little  helper 
to  me  since  the  beginning,  and  one  has  to  look  after 
one's  helpers,  you  know." 

He  had  quite  recovered  himself  now.  Mollie,  who 
had  been  so  pleased  to  be  asked  to  do  what  he  would 
like  these  girls  to  do,  and  was  obviously  not  to  be 
criticised,  in  his  position,  for  asking  them  to  do,  was 
a  great  stand-by.     "  I  really  don't  know  how  I  got  on 


102  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

before  Mollie  came,"  he  said.  "  And  Mrs.  Mercer  feels 
just  the  same  about  her.  She  has  been  like  a  daughter 
to  us." 

"  She's  a  dear,"  said  Beatrix.  "  She  has  half 
promised  to  come  and  see  us  in  London,  when  we  go  up. 
She  has  actual!}'  hardly  ever  been  to  London  at  all." 

"  It's  most  kind  of  you  to  take  such  an  interest  in 
her,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  But  you  mustn't  spoil  her,  you 
know.  I'm  not  sure  that  she  wouldn't  be  rather  out  of 
place  in  the  sort  of  life  that  you  lead  in  London.  She 
isn't  used  to  going  about,  and  hasn't  been  brought  up 
to  it.  If  you  are  kind  to  her  when  you  are  down  here, 
and  ask  her  to  come  and  see  you  now  and  then,  but 
don't  let  her  make  herself  a  burden  on  you,  you  will 
be  doing  her  a  great  kindness,  and  all  that  can  be  re- 
quired of  you." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  "  We  look  upon  Mollie 
as  our  friend,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse,  "  and  one  does 
not  find  one's  friends  a  burden." 

They  sat  on  round  the  tea-table,  and  conversation 
languished.  The  Vicar  made  tentative  advances 
towards  a  stroll  round  the  garden,  but  they  were  not 
taken  up.  Young  George  was  dying  to  get  away  to 
his  activities,  but  did  not  like  to  make  a  move,  so  sat 
and  fidgeted  instead,  his  distaste  for  the  Vicar  grow- 
ing apace. 

At  last  the  Vicar  got  up  to  take  his  leave.  Young 
George  accompanied  him  to  the  gate  which  led  from 
the  garden  into  the  road,  and  opened  it  for  him.  "  Well 
good-bye,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  Vicar,  his  hand 


YOUNG  GEORGE  103 

again  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "  I  hope  you'll  have  an 
enjoyable  holiday  here.  We  must  do  all  we  can  to 
make  it  amusing  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  young  George,  looking  down 
on  the  ground,  and  the  Vicar  took  himself  off,  vaguely 
dissatisfied,  but  not  blaming  himself  at  all  for  any 
awkwardness  that  had  peeped  through  during  his  visit. 

Young  George  went  back  to  the  tea-table,  his  cheeks 
flaming.  "  What  a  beast!  "  he  said  hotly.  "  What  a 
cad!    Why  do  you  have  a  creature  like  that  here.''  " 

"  Darling  old  boy ! "  said  Caroline  soothingly. 
"  He's  not  worth  making  a  fuss  about.  We  can  deal 
with  him  all  right.  He  won't  come  here  so  much  when 
he  finds  out  we  don't  want  him.  But  we  must  be  polite 
as  long  as  he  does  come." 

"  Fancy  him  having  the  cheek  to  ask  you  to  go  visit- 
ing with  him!"  said  Young  George.  "I'm  jolly  glad 
I  let  him  know  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I  know  Dad 
wouldn't,  and  when  he's  not  here  I'm  the  man  who 
has  to  look  after  you." 

Beatrix  caught  hold  of  him  and  kissed  him.  "  We 
love  being  looked  after  by  you.  Bunting,"  she  said. 
"  It's  jolly  to  have  a  brother  old  enough  to  do  it.  But 
don't  fash  yourself  about  Lord  Salisbury,  dear.  We 
get  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  his  efforts." 

"  You  mustn't  quarrel  with  him.  Bunting,"  said  Bar- 
bara. "  If  you  do,  he'll  leave  off  calling  me  a  sun- 
beam." 

"  If  I  hear  him  doing  that,"  said  Bunting,  "  I  shall 
tell  him  what  I  really  think  of  him." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WHITSUNTIDE 

WHirsFNTiDE,  which  fell  in  June  that  year,  found  a 
large  party  assembled  at  the  Abbey.  Grafton  had 
brought  down  a  few  friends  every  Friday  since  Easter, 
but  this  was  the  first  time  that  the  house  had  been  full. 
He  had  enjoyed  those  week-ends  at  Abington  more 
consciously  than  he  had  enjoyed  anything  for  years. 
And  yet  there  was  *  nothing  to  do,'  as  he  was  careful 
to  inform  everybody  whom  he  asked  down.  He  would 
have  hesitated  himself,  before  he  had  bought  Abington, 
over  spending  two  and  sometimes  three  and  four  days  in 
the  week  in  a  country  house,  in  late  spring  and  early 
summer,  with  no  very  good  golf  links  near,  no  river  or 
sea,  nothing  specially  interesting  in  the  way  of  guests,  or 
elaborate  in  the  preparations  made  to  entertain  them. 
While  the  children  had  been  growing  up  he  had  paid 
occasional  visits  to  quiet  country  houses,  in  this  way, 
and  since  Caroline  had  left  the  schoolroom  they  had 
sometimes  paid  them  together.  But  once  or  twice  in 
the  year,  outside  the  shooting  season,  had  been  quite 
enough.  There  were  more  amusing  things  to  be  done, 
and  he  had  been  so  accustomed  to  skimming  the  cream 
off  every  social  pleasure  that  he  had  always  been  on 
the  lookout  for  amusing  things  to  be  done,  though  he 

104 


WHITSUNTIDE  105 

had  not  cared  for  them  when  he  did  them  much  more 
than  he  enjoyed  other  parts  of  his  easy  life. 

It  was  all  too  much  on  the  same  level.  Special  en- 
joyment only  comes  by  contrast.  Grafton's  work  in- 
terested him,  and  he  did  not  do  enough  of  it  ever  to 
make  him  want  a  holiday  for  the  sake  of  a  holiday, 
and  seldom  enough  on  any  given  day  to  make  him  par- 
ticularly glad  to  leave  it  and  go  home.  He  liked  leav- 
ing it,  to  go  home  or  to  his  club  for  a  rubber.  But 
then  he  also  rather  liked  leaving  his  home  to  go  down  to 
the  City,  in  the  mornings.  When  he  had  been  to  the 
City  for  four  or  five  days  running,  he  liked  to  wake 
up  and  feel  he  was  not  going  there.  If  he  had  been 
away  for  some  time,  he  was  pleased  to  go  back  to  it, 
though  perhaps  he  would  have  been  equally  pleased  to 
do  something  else,  as  long  as  it  was  quite  different 
from  what  he  had  been  doing.  He  liked  dining  out ; 
he  also  liked  dining  at  home.  If  he  had  dined  alone 
with  his  family  two  or  three  times  running,  he  liked 
having  guests ;  if  he  had  dined  in  company  four  or  five 
times  running,  he  preferred  to  dine  alone  with  his 
family.  It  was  the  same  all  through.  The  tune  to 
which  his  life  was  played  was  change :  constant  little 
variations  of  the  same  sort  of  tune.  He  would  never 
have  said  that  he  was  not  satisfied  with  it;  it  was  the 
life  he  would  have  chosen  to  go  back  to  at  any  time, 
if  he  had  been  cut  off  from  it,  and  there  was  indeed 
no  other  kind  of  life  that  he  could  not  have  had  if 
he  had  chosen  to  change  it.  But  it  held  no  great  zest. 
The  little  changes  were  too  frequent,  and  had  become 


106  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

in  course  of  time  no  more  than  a  series  of  crepitations 
in  a  course  of  essential  sameness. 

His  buying  of  Abington  Abbey  had  presented  itself 
to  him  at  first  as  no  more  than  one  of  these  small 
changes  which  made  up  his  life.  Although  he  had  had 
it  in  his  mind  to  buy  a  country  house  for  some  years 
past,  he  had  not  exerted  himself  to  find  one,  partly 
for  fear  that  it  would  reduce  the  necessary  amount  of 
change.  The  London  house  was  never  a  tie.  You 
could  leave  it  whenever  you  wished  to.  But  a  country 
house  would  make  claims.  It  might  come  to  be  irk- 
some to  have  to  go  to  it,  instead  of  going  here,  there, 
and  everywhere,  and  if  you  forsook  it  too  much  it  might 
reproach  you.  Other  people's  country  houses  would 
never  do  that. 

But  ownership  had  had  an  effect  upon  him  that  he 
would  never  have  suspected.  The  feeling  of  home, 
which  had  hitherto  centred  entirely  in  his  family,  still 
centred  there,  but  gained  enormously  in  richness  from 
the  surroundings  in  which  he  had  placed  them.  The 
thousand  little  interests  of  the  place  itself,  and  of  the 
country  around  it,  were  beginning  to  close  in  on  them 
and  to  colour  them  afresh;  they  stood  out  of  it  more, 
and  gained  value  from  their  setting.  His  own  interests 
in  it,  too,  were  increasing,  and  included  many  things 
in  which  he  had  never  thought  of  himself  as  taking  any 
keen  interest.  He  did  not,  as  yet,  care  much  for  details 
of  estate  management,  and  left  all  that  to  Worthing, 
who  was  a  little  disappointed  that  a  man  who  filled  a 
big  position  in  the  financial  world  was  not  prepared  to 


WHITSUNTIDE  107 

make  something  of  a  hobby  of  what  to  him  was  the 
difficult  part  of  his  work,  and  ease  his  frequent  anxieties 
about  it  by  his  more  penetrating  insight.  But  Grafton 
did  not  leave  his  bank  parlour  in  Lombard  Street  on 
Friday  afternoon  in  order  to  spend  Saturday  morning 
in  his  Estate  Office  in  Abington.  Nor  did  he  go  far 
afield  for  his  pleasures.  The  nearest  golf  links  worth 
his  playing  over,  who  was  used  to  the  best,  were  ten 
miles  away,  which  was  nothing  in  a  car,  but  he  pre- 
ferred to  send  his  guests  there,  if  any  of  them  wanted  to 
play  golf,  and  stay  at  home  himself,  or  play  a  round 
on  the  nine-hole  park  course  at  Wilborough.  He  took 
interest  in  the  rearing  of  game,  but  that  was  about  the 
only  thing  that  took  him  even  about  his  own  property. 
For  the  present,  at  least,  in  the  spring  and  early  sum- 
mer the  house  and  the  garden  were  enough  for  him, 
and  a  cast  or  two  in  the  lengthening  evenings  over 
one  or  other  of  the  pools  into  which  the  river  that 
meandered  through  the  park  widened  here  and 
there. 

Nothing  to  do !  But  there  was  an  infinity  of  little 
things  to  do,  which  filled  his  days  like  an  idle  but  yet 
active  and  happy  dream.  The  contrasts  of  the  quiet 
country  life  were  only  more  minute  than  those  which 
made  the  wider  more  varied  life  blend  into  a  somewhat 
monotonous  whole.  They  were  there,  to  give  it  interest 
and  charm,  but  they  seemed  to  relieve  it  of  all  monot- 
ony. The  very  sameness  was  its  charm.  It  was  enough 
to  wake  up  in  this  quiet  spacious  beautiful  house 
lapped  in  the  peace  of  its  sylvan  remoteness,  and  to 


108  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

feel  that  the  day  was  to  be  spent  there,  it  mattered  not 
how.  When  the  time  came  to  leave  it,  he  left  it  with 
regret,  and  when  he  came  back  to  it,  it  was  to  take 
up  its  life  at  the  point  at  which  he  had  left  it.  He  had 
thought  of  it  only  as  a  holiday  house — only  as  a  very 
occasional  holiday  house  until  the  autumn  should  make 
it  something  more, — and  that  a  succession  of  guests 
would  be  almost  a  necessity  on  his  week-end  visits,  if 
they  were  to  get  the  pleasant  flavour  out  of  it.  But 
he  had  arranged  for  no  big  party  of  them  during  two 
months  of  regular  visits,  and  on  the  whole  had  enjoyed 
it  more  on  the  days  when  he  had  been  alone  with  the 
family. 

He  had  never  liked  his  family  so  much  as  in  these 
days  when  they  were  his  constant  and  sometimes  sole 
companions.  Hitherto,  in  London,  except  for  their 
occasional  quiet  evenings  together,  it  had  always  meant 
going  out  to  do  something,  and  until  lately,  since  Caro- 
line had  grown  up,  it  had  generally  meant  inventing 
something  to  go  out  for.  In  the  main,  his  pursuits  had 
been  other  than  theirs.  With  Young  George,  especially, 
it  had  been  sometimes  almost  irksome  to  take  the  re- 
sponsibility of  finding  amusement  for  him.  And  yet 
he  loved  his  little  son,  and  wanted  to  have  him  grow  up 
as  his  companion. 

Well,  Young  George  wanted  no  better  one ;  there  was 
no  necessity  to  find  amusement  for  him  at  Abington. 
Abington,  with  all  that  went  with  it,  zvas  amusement 
for  both  of  them,  every  hour  of  the  day.  Young 
George  would  follow  him  about  everywhere,  chattering 


WHITSUNTIDE  109 

effusively  all  the  time,  completely  happy  and  at  ease 
with  him.  He  had  reached  the  age  at  which  a  boy 
wants  his  play  to  be  the  play  of  a  man,  and  wants  a 
man  to  play  it  with.  When  Grafton  was  up  in  Lon- 
don he  immersed  himself  in  more  childish  pursuits,  with 
Barbara  as  his  companion,  or  Jimmy  Beckley,  who  was 
a  constant  visitor  during  the  Easter  holidays.  But 
his  best  days  were  those  on  which  his  father  was  there, 
and  on  those  days  he  would  hardly  let  him  out  of  his 
sight.  Grafton  felt  quite  sad  when  he  went  back  to 
school.  Previously  he  had  felt  a  trifle  of  relief  when 
the  end  of  the  holidays  came. 

Miss  Waterhouse  and  Barbara  had  stayed  at  Abing- 
ton  ever  since  they  had  moved  down  there.  Caroline 
had  only  been  up  to  London  once  for  the  inside  of  the 
week,  although  the  season  was  now  in  full  swing,  and 
it  had  never  been  intended  that  they  should  not  be 
chiefly  in  London  until  the  end  of  it.  The  time  for 
moving  up  had  been  put  off  and  put  off.  The  country 
was  so  delightful  in  the  late  spring  and  early  summer. 
After  Whitsuntide  perhaps  they  would  move  up  to  Lon- 
don. But  it  had  never  been  definitely  settled  that  they 
should  do  so,  and  hitherto  Caroline  had  seemed  quite 
content  to  miss  all  her  parties,  and  to  enjoy  her  days 
in  the  garden  and  in  the  country,  and  her  evenings  in 
the  quiet  house. 

Beatrix  had  been  presented,  and  had  been  hard  at  it 
in  London,  staying  with  her  aunt.  Lady  Handsworth, 
and  enjoying  herself  exceedingly.  But  she  had  come 
down  to  Abington  twice  with  her  father.    Abington  was 


110  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

home  now,  and  weighed  even  against  the  pleasures  of 
a  first  London  season. 

The  Whitsuntide  guests  were  Lord  Handsworth, 
Grafton's  brother-in-law,  with  his  wife  and  daughter, 
a  girl  of  about  Caroline's  age.  Sir  James  and  Lady 
Grafton,  the  Marquis  de  Clermont-Lassigny,  the  Hon- 
ourable Francis  Parry,  and  one  or  two  more  out  of  that 
army  of  Londoners  who  are  to  be  found  scattered 
all  over  the  country  houses  of  England  on  certain  days 
of  the  week  at  certain  times  of  the  year. 

Lassigny  was  one  of  those  men  who  appear  very  Eng- 
lish when  they  are  in  England  and  very  French  when 
they  are  in  France.  He  was  a  handsome  man,  getting 
on  in  the  thirties.  He  had  been  attached  to  the  French 
Embassy  in  London,  but  had  inherited  wealth  from  an 
American  mother,  and  had  relinquished  a  diplomatic 
career  to  enjoy  himself,  now  in  Paris,  now  in  London, 
and  sometimes  even  in  his  fine  chateau  in  Picardy,  which 
had  been  saved  for  him  by  his  mother's  dollars.  It 
was  supposed  that  he  was  looking  out  for  an  English 
wife,  if  he  could  find  one  to  his  taste,  but  his  pursuit 
during  many  visits  to  England  spread  over  some  years 
had  not  been  very  arduous.  He  had  danced  a  good  deal 
with  Caroline  during  her  two  seasons ;  and  her  aunt, 
who  had  taken  her  about,  as  she  now  took  Beatrix,  had 
rather  expected  that  something  might  come  of  it. 
Caroline  had  always  thought  she  knew  better.  Her 
virginal  indifference  to  the  approaches  of  men  had  not 
prevented  her  from  appreciating  the  signs  of  special 
devotion,  and  she  had  seen  none  in  Lassigny.     He  had 


WHITSUNTIDE  111 

been  very  friendly,  and  she  liked  the  friendship  of  men. 
It  would  hardly  have  been  too  much  to  say  of  her,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  after  two  full  seasons  and 
the  months  of  country  house  visiting  that  had  passed 
with  them,  that  she  was  still  in  the  schoolgirl  state  of 
thinking  that  anything  approaching  love-making  '  spoilt 
things.'  She  was  rather  too  experienced  to  hold  that  view 
in  its  entirety,  but  it  was  hers  in  essence ;  she  had  never 
wanted  the  signs  of  attraction  in  any  man  to  go  beyond 
the  point  at  which  they  made  agreeable  the  friendship. 
It  was  the  friendship  she  liked;  the  love  that  might  be 
lurking  beneath  it  she  was  not  ready  for,  though  it 
might  add  a  spice  to  the  friendship  if  it  were  suspected 
but  did  not  obtrude  itself. 

It  had  been  so  with  Francis  Parry.  They  were  very 
good  friends,  and  he  admired  her;  that  she  knew  well 
enough.  But  she  did  not  want  him  to  make  it  too 
plain.  If  he  had  done  so  she  would  have  had  to  be- 
think herself,  and  she  did  not  want  to  do  that.  With 
Lassigny  she  had  not  felt  like  that.  He  was  older 
than  Francis,  and  more  interesting.  Young  men  of 
Francis's  age  and  upbringing  were  so  much  alike ;  you 
knew  exactly  what  to  talk  to  them  about,  and  it  was 
always  the  same.  But  Lassigny,  in  spite  of  his  Eng- 
lish appearance  and  English  tastes,  had  other  experi- 
ences, and  to  talk  to  him  was  to  feel  them  even  if  they 
were  not  expressed.  He  had  his  own  way  of  behaving 
too,  which  was  not  quite  the  same  as  that  of  a  young 
Englishman.  It  was  a  trifle  more  formal  and  cere- 
monious.   Caroline  had  the  idea  that  he  was  watching 


112  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

her,  and  as  it  were  experimenting  with  her,  under  the 
guise  of  the  pleasant  intimacy  that  had  grown  up  be- 
tween them.  If  she  proved  to  be  what  he  wanted  he 
might  offer  her  marriage,  perhaps  before  he  should  have 
taken  any  steps  towards  wooing  her.  It  was  interest- 
ing, even  a  little  thrilling,  to  be  on  the  edge  of  that 
unknown.  But,  unless  he  was  quite  unlike  other  men 
who  had  come  within  her  experience,  the  impulsion 
from  within  had  not  come  to  him,  after  two  years. 
She  would  have  known  if  it  had,  or  thought  she 
would. 

The  Whitsuntide  party  mixed  well.  There  were 
bridges  in  this  family  between  youth  and  age,  or  middle- 
age  ;  for  Sir  James  Grafton,  who  was  the  oldest  of  them 
all,  was  not  much  over  fifty,  though  he  looked  older. 
He  was  fond  of  his  nieces,  and  they  of  him,  and  he 
did  not  feel  the  loss  of  his  laborator}'  so  acutely  when 
he  was  in  their  company.  Lord  Handsworth  was  also 
a  banker — a  busy  bustling  man  who  put  as  much  energy 
into  his  amusements  as  into  his  work.  He  was  the 
only  one  of  the  party  for  whom  it  was  quite  necessary 
to  provide  outside  occupation.  Fortunately  that  was 
to  be  found  on  the  Sandthorpe  links,  and  he  spent  his 
three  days  there,  with  whoever  was  willing  to  accom- 
pany him.  The  rest  *  sat  about '  in  the  gorgeous  sum- 
mer weather,  played  lawn  games,  went  for  walks  and 
rides  and  drives,  and  enjoyed  themselves  in  a  lotus- 
eating  manner.  And  in  the  evenings  they  assembled 
in  the  long  gallery,  played  bridge  and  music,  talked  and 
laughed,  and  even  read ;  for  there  was  room  enough  in 


WHITSUNTIDE  113 

it  for  Sir  James  to  get  away  with  a  book,  and  enjoy 
seclusion  at  the  same  time  as  company. 

Such  parties  as  these  make  for  intimacy.  On  Mon- 
day evening  there  was  scarcely  a  member  of  it  who  did 
not  feel  some  faint  regret  at  the  breaking  up  that  was 
to  come  on  the  next  morning,  unless  it  was  Lord  Hands- 
worth,  who  had  exhausted  the  novelty  of  the  Sand- 
thorpe  links.  Worthing  had  come  to  dine,  but  the 
only  other  outside  guest  had  been  Bertie  Pemberton. 
It  was  near  midsummer,  for  Easter  had  been  late  that 
year.  Most  of  them  were  in  the  garden,  sitting  in  the 
yew  arbour,  or  strolling  about  under  a  sky  of  spangled 
velvet. 

Francis  Parry  was  with  Caroline.  He  had  been  with 
her  a  good  deal  during  the  last  three  days,  and  their 
friendship  had  taken  a  deeper  tinge.  She  was  a  little 
troubled  about  it,  and  it  was  not  by  her  wish  that  he 
and  she  found  themselves  detached  from  the  group  with 
which  they  had  set  out  to  stroll  through  the  gardens. 

They  had  all  gone  together  as  far  as  the  lily  pond. 
This  was  a  new  bit  of  garden-planning  on  a  somewhat 
extensive  scale ;  for  Grafton  had  lost  no  time  in  taking 
up  this  fascinating  country  pursuit,  and  Caroline  had 
busied  herself  over  its  carrying  out.  It  was  actually 
an  entirely  new  garden  of  considerable  size  carved  out 
of  the  park.  The  stone-built  lily  pond  was  finished, 
the  turf  laid,  the  borders  dug  and  filled,  the  yews 
planted.  It  had  been  a  fascinating  work  to  carry  out, 
but  it  had  had  to  be  done  in  a  hurry  at  that  time  of  the 
year,  and  hardly  as  yet  gave  any  of  the  impression 


114  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

that  even  a  winter's  passing  would  have  foreshadowed. 
It  was  led  up  to  by  a  broad  flagged  path,  and  when 
the  company  had  reached  the  pond  most  of  them  turned 
back  and  left  it  again. 

But  Francis  Parry  seemed  more  interested  in  it  than 
the  rest,  and  stayed  where  he  was,  asking  questions  of 
Caroline,  who  had  answered  most  of  them  during  earlier 
visits. 

"  I  suppose  this  is  really  what  has  kept  you  down 
here,  isn't  it,"  he  asked,  "  when  you  ought  to  have 
been  amusing  yourself  in  London?  " 

She  laughed,  and  said :  "  I  amuse  myself  better  down 
here.  I  love  being  in  the  country.  I  don't  miss  Lon- 
don a  bit." 

"  I  like  the  country  too,"  he  said,  "  even  in  the  sum- 
mer." 

Caroline  laughed  again.  "  '  Even  in  the  summer'!'* 
she  repeated.     "  It's  the  best  of  all  times." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  know,"  he  said.  "  It's  more  beautiful, 
and  that's  what  you  like  about  it,  isn't  it.-*  It's  what 
I  like  too.  A  night  like  this  is  heavenly.  Let's  stop 
here  a  few  minutes  and  take  it  in.  I  suppose  your  beau- 
tiful stone  seats  are  meant  to  be  sat  on,  aren't  they.'' 
We  ought  to  do  justice  to  your  new  garden." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  laughing  at  my  new  garden," 
said  Caroline.  "  But  perhaps  it  will  do  the  poor  thing 
good  to  be  treated  as  if  it  were  really  grown  up.  It 
"Will  be  lovely  in  a  year  or  two,  you  know." 

She  moved  across  the  grass,  which  even  the  light  of 
the  moon  showed  not  yet  to  have  settled  into  smooth 


WHITSUNTIDE  115 

unbroken  turf,  and  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  in  a 
niche  of  yew.  The  separate  trees  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed were  as  large  as  could  have  been  safely  trans- 
planted, but  they  had  not  yet  come  together,  and  were 
not  tall  enough  to  create  the  effect  of  seclusion,  except 
in  the  eye  of  faith.  Caroline  laughed  again.  "  It 
ought  to  be  rather  romantic,"  she  said,  "  but  I'm  afraid 
it  isn't  quite  A'et." 

"  I  should  think  any  garden  romantic  with  you  in 
it,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  his  seat  by  her  side. 

"  Thanks,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  do  feel  that  I  fit 
in.  But  I  think  you  had  better  wait  a  year  or  two  to 
see  how  all  this  is  going  to  fit  me.  Come  down  for 
Whitsuntide  in  three  years'  time,  when  the  hedges  have 
grown  up.  Then  I  will  sit  here  and  make  a  real  pic- 
ture for  you." 

She  made  an  entrancing  picture  as  it  was,  her  white 
frock  revealing  the  grace  of  her  slim  body,  the  moon 
silvering  her  pretty  fair  hair  and  resting  on  the  deli- 
cate curves  of  her  cheek  and  her  neck.  The  yews  were 
tall  enough  to  give  her  their  sombre  background,  and 
a  group  of  big  trees  behind  them  helped  out  the  un- 
finished garden  picture. 

"  It  has  altered  you,  you  know,  already,"  said 
Francis,  rather  unexpectedly. 

"  What  has  altered  me?  Living  in  a  garden.''  That's 
what  I've  been  doing  for  the  last  few  weeks." 

"  Yes.  Living  in  a  garden.  Living  in  the  country. 
You're  awfully  sweet  as  a  country  girl,  Caroline." 

"  A  dewy  English  girl.     That's  what  B  and  I  said 


116  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

we  should  be  when  we  came  down  here.  I'm  awfully 
glad  you've  seen  it  so  soon.  Thanks  ever  so  much, 
Francis." 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  Then  the  young  man 
said  in  his  quiet  well-bred  voice :  "  I've  never  been  quite 
sure  whether  I  was  in  love  with  you  or  not.  Now  I 
know  I  am,  and  have  been  all  along." 

Now  that  it  had  come — what  she  had  felt  coming 
for  the  last  three  days,  and  had  instinctively  warded 
off — she  felt  quite  calm  and  collected.  She  approved 
of  this  quiet  way  of  introducing  a  serious  subject. 
There  had  been  one  or  two  attempted  introductions  of 
the  same  subject  which  had  been  more  difficult  to  han- 
dle. But  it  ought  to  be  talked  over  quietly,  between 
two  sensible  people,  who  liked  one  another,  and  under- 
stood one  another.  They  might  possibly  come  to  an 
agreement,  or  they  might  not.  If  they  didn't,  they 
could  still  go  on  being  friends.  That  it  was  somewhat 
lacking  in  romance  did  not  trouble  her.  The  less  ro- 
mance had  to  do  with  the  business  of  marriage  the  more 
likely  it  was  to  turn  out  satisfactorily ;  provided  always 
that  there  was  genuine  liking  and  some  community  of 
taste.  That  was  Caroline's  view  of  marriage,  come  to 
after  a  good  deal  of  observation.  Since  her  first  sea- 
son she  had  always  intended  to  choose  with  her  head. 
Her  heart,  she  thought,  would  approve  of  her  choice 
if  she  put  her  head  first.  The  head,  she  had  noticed, 
did  not  alwa^'s  approve  afterwards  when  the  heart  had 
been  allowed  to  decide.  But  love,  of  course,  must  not  be 
left  out  of  account  in  marriage.    With  the  girl  it  could 


WHITSUNTIDE  117 

be  safely  left  to  spring  out  of  liking;  with  the  man  it 
might  do  the  same,  but  he  must  attain  to  it  before  he 
made  his  proposal.  Francis  seemed  to  have  done  that, 
and  she  knew  him  very  well,  and  liked  him.  If  she  must 
be  proposed  to,  she  would  prefer  it  to  be  in  exactly  this 
way — perhaps  with  the  yew  hedges  grown  a  little  more, 
and  the  squares  of  turf  come  closer  together.  But  it 
would  do  very  well  as  it  was,  with  the  fountain  splash- 
ing in  the  lily  pond,  and  the  moonlight  falling  on  the 
roofs  and  windows  of  the  old  house,  which  could  be 
seen  through  the  broad  vista  of  the  formal  garden. 

"  I  hadn't  meant  to  marry  just  yet,"  Francis  made 
his  confession,  as  she  did  not  immediately  reply  to 
him.  "  But  for  some  time  I've  thought  that  when  I  did 
I  should  want  to  marry  you — if  you'd  have  me.  Do 
you  think  you  could,  Caroline?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet,"  said  Caroline  directly.  "  Why 
hadn't  you  meant  to  marry  just  yet.^*  " 

"  Oh,  well ;  I'm  only  twenty-seven,  you  know.  I 
shouldn't  want  to  marr}^  yet  for  the  sahe  of  being 
married.  Still,  everything's  changed  when  you're  really 
in  love  with  a  girl.  Then  you  do  want  to  get  married. 
You  begin  to  see  there's 'nothing  like  it.  If  I'd  felt 
about  you  as  I  feel  about  you  now,  when  I  first  knew 
you,  I  should  have  wanted  to  marry  you  then." 

"  I  think  I  was  only  fifteen  when  we  first  knew  each 
other." 

"  Was  that  all.''  Yes,  it  was  when  I'd  just  come  down 
from  Oxford.  Well,  I  liked  you  then,  and  I've  gone  on 
liking  you   ever  since.     You  were  awfully   attractive 


118  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

when  you  were  fifteen.  I  believe  I  did  fall  in 
love  with  you  then.  You  liked  me  too  rather, 
didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  It  was  that  day  up  the  river.  I  was 
rather  shy,  as  B  and  I  were  the  only  girls  who  weren't 
grown  up.  But  you  talked  to  us  both,  and  were  very 
nice.     Oh,  yes,  Francis,  I've  always  liked  you." 

"  Well  then,  won't  you  try  and  love  me  a  bit.''  I  do 
love  you,  you  know.  If  I've  kept  a  cool  head  about  it, 
it's  because  I  think  that's  the  best  way,  with  a  girl 
you're  going  to  spend  your  life  with — if  you  have  the 
luck — until  you're  quite  certain  she  is  the  girl  you 
want.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there's  never  been  another 
with  me.  If  I  haven't  come  forward,  as  they  say  in 
books,  it  hasn't  been  because  I've  ever  thought  about 
anybody  else." 

It  was  all  exactly  as  it  should  have  been.  He  had 
chosen  with  his  head  too,  and  now  his  heart  had  stepped 
in  just  at  the  right  time,  to  corroborate  his  choice. 
And  she  did  like  him;  there  had  never  been  anything 
in  him  that  she  hadn't  liked,  since  that  first  day  when  in 
all  his  Leander  smartness,  among  all  the  young  men  who 
had  devoted  themselves  to  the  young  women  of  the 
party,  he  had  been  the  one  who  had  made  himself  agree- 
able to  the  two  half-fledged  girls.  She  liked  too  his 
saying  that  there  had  never  been  anybody  else.  The 
first  statement  that  he  hadn't  intended  to  marry  just 
yet  had  chilled  her  a  trifle,  though  there  had  been 
nothing  in  it  to  conflict  with  her  well-thought-out 
theory. 


WHITSUNTIDE  119 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  say  that,"  she  said.  "  I 
haven't  thought  about  anybody  else  either.  We  should 
both  be  glad  of  that  afterwards,  if  we  did  marry." 

"  Then  you  will  say  yes,"  he  said  eagerly,  drawing 
suddenly  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

She  drew  away  quickly  and  instinctively,  and  rose 
from  the  seat.  "  Oh,  I  haven't  said  so  yet,"  she  said. 
"  I  must  think  a  lot  about  it  first.  But  thank  you  very 
much  for  asking  me,  Francis.  It's  very  sweet  of  you. 
Now  I  think  we'd  better  be  going  in." 

He  rose  too.  She  looked  lovely  standing  there  in  the 
moonlight,  in  all  her  virginal  youth  and  grace.  If  he 
had  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  pleaded  for  his  answer! 
His  senses  bade  him  take  her,  and  keep  her  for  his  own 
— the  sweetest  thing  to  him  on  God's  earth  at  that  mo- 
ment. But  he  wouldn't  frighten  her;  he  must  wait 
until  she  was  ready.  Then,  if  she'd  give  herself  to  him, 
he  would  be  completely  happy.  By  the  use  of  his 
brains  he  was  becoming  a  very  good  financier,  though 
still  young.  But  it  is  doubtful  whether  his  brains 
guided  him  aright  in  this  crisis  of  his  life. 

"  I'm  very  disappointed  that  you  can't  say  yes  now," 
he  said,  his  voice  trembling  a  little.  "  I  do  love  you, 
Caroline — awfully." 

She  liked  him  better  at  that  moment  than  she  had 
ever  liked  him  before.  The  man  of  the  world,  composed 
of  native  adaptability  and  careful  training,  had  given 
place  to  the  pleading  youth,  who  had  need  of  her.  But 
she  had  no  need  of  him,  for  the  moment  at  least.  "  I 
must  think  it  over,  Francis,"  she  said,  almost  pleading 


120  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

in  her  turn.     "  Don't  let's  be  in  a  hurrj.     We're  both 
such  sensible  people." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  feel  in  a  particularly  sensible 
mood  just  at  present,"  he  said  with  a  wry  smile.  "  But 
I'm  not  going  to  rush  you,  my  dear.  I  shall  give  you  a 
week  or  two  to  think  it  over,  and  then  I  shall  come  and 
ask  you  again.    God  knows,  I  want  you  badly  enough." 


CHAPTER    IX 

CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX 

All  the  guests  departed  on  Tuesday  morning  with  the 
exception  of  Sir  James  and  Lady  Grafton.  It  was  a 
surprising  compliment  on  the  part  of  Sir  James  that 
he  should  have  proposed  to  stay  over  another  day. 
He  explained  it  by  saying  that  he  hadn't  quite  got  the 
hang  of  the  library  yet.  The  library  was  well  furnished 
with  old  books  in  which  nobody  had  hitherto  taken 
much  interest.  But  Sir  James  did  not,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  spend  a  great  deal  of  his  time  there  on  the  extra 
day  that  he  had  proposed  to  devote  to  it.  He  spent 
most  of  his  time  out  of  doors  with  one  or  other  of  his 
nieces,  and  although  he  carried  a  calf-bound  volume  of 
respectable  size  in  either  pocket  of  his  coat  he  left 
them  reposing  there  as  far  as  could  be  seen. 

"  The  dear  old  thing!  "  said  his  young  and  sprightly 
wife.  "  What  he  really  likes  is  pottering  about  quietly 
with  the  children.  They  really  are  dears,  George.  I 
wish  we  saw  more  of  them;  but  you  never  will  bring 
them  to  Frayne.     I  suppose  it's  too  dull  for  you." 

"  Well,  it  is  rather  dull,"  said  Grafton,  who  was  on 
the  best  of  terms  with  his  sister-in-law.  "  If  James  and 
I  didn't  meet  in  the  City  I  should  want  to  go  and  see 

him  there  sometimes,  but " 

121 


122  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  Well,  that's  a  nice  speech !  "  exclaimed  her  ladyship. 
"  You  don't  meet  me  in  the  City.  But  I'll  forgive  you. 
After  all,  it  isn't  you  I  want  to  see  at  Frayne — it's  the 
children.  They're  growing  up  so  nicely,  George.  You 
owe  a  lot  to  Miss  Waterhouse.  I've  never  seen  two 
girls  of  Caroline's  and  Beatrix's  ages  who  can  do  as 
much  to  make  all  sorts  and  ages  of  people  enjoy  them- 
selves. James  says  the  same.  He  didn't  want  to  come 
here  much,  to  a  big  party,  but  now  you  see  you  can't 
get  him  away.  And  dear  little  Barbara  will  be  just 
the  same.  James  adores  Barbara,  and  it's  awfully 
pretty  to  see  her  taking  him  about  with  her  arm  in 
his,  and  chattering  about  everything  in  earth  and 
heaven.  I  wish  we'd  had  some  girls.  The  boys  are 
darlings,  of  course,  but  they're  not  peaceful  when 
they're  growing  up,  and  my  dear  old  James  loves 
peace." 

"  We  all  do,"  said  Grafton.  "  That's  why  we  love 
this  place.  It's  quite  changed  me  already.  When  one 
of  your  boys  is  ready  to  come  into  the  Bank  I  shall  re- 
tire and  become  a  country  squire,  of  the  kind  that 
never  steps  outside  his  own  house." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,  George.  James  retires  before 
you.  I  wish  the  boys  were  older.  It's  James's  fault 
for  not  marrying  at  the  proper  age.  However,  if  he'd 
done  that  he  wouldn't  have  married  me,  for  I  was  in 
the  cradle  at  that  time." 

"  They  must  have  pretty  big  cradles  where  you  come 
from,"  said  Grafton. 

She  gave  him  a  reproving  pat  on  the  sleeve ;  she  likecl 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  123 

that  kind  of  joke.  "  This  is  really  a  nicer  place  than 
Frayne,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  wonder  you've  taken  to 
it.  It's  hardly  fair  that  the  younger  brother  should 
have  a  nicer  place  than  the  elder.  But  I  think  now 
you've  settled  down  in  a  house  of  your  own,  George, 
you  ought  to  think  of  marrying  again.  I  never  thought 
you  wanted  it  while  you  were  a  young  man  about  town, 
but  if  you're  going  to  change  all  your  tastes  and  settle 
down  in  the  country  you  will  want  a  wife  to  look  after 
things  for  you." 

"  I've  got  the  children,"  he  said  shortly. 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  don't  think  you're  going  to  keep 
them  long,  do  you?  It's  a  marvel  to  me  that  Caroline 
hasn't  married  already.  She's  been  one  of  the  prettiest 
of  all  the  girls,  and  B  is  even  prettier,  if  that's  possible. 
You'll  lose  'em  both  pretty  soon,  if  I'm  not  very  much 
mistaken." 

He  turned  to  her  in  some  alarm.  "  What  do  you 
mean.?"  he  asked.  "There's  nothing  going  on,  is 
there.?" 

She  laughed.  "  How  blind  men  are,"  she  said.  M. 
de  Lassigny  is  head  over  ears  in  love  with  B." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mary,  what  nonsense !  Excuse  my 
saying  so,  but  it's  such  a  short  time  since  you  were  in 
the  cradle." 

"  Very  well,  George.  You  may  call  it  nonsense  if 
you  like.     But  you'll  see." 

"  He's  been  a  friend  of  Caroline's  for  the  last  two 
years.  It  was  she  who  asked  him  down  here.  It  would 
be  her  if  it  were  anybody,  but  I  know  it  isn't." 


124  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  You  may  know  it  isn't  Caroline.  I  know  it  too. 
They're  just  friends.  You  can't  know  it  isn't  B,  be- 
cause it  is." 

"  What  makes  you  say  so?  He's  been  just  like  all 
the  rest  of  them  here.  He's  been  with  Caroline  just  as 
much  as  with  B.  Barbara  too,  I  should  say,  and  the 
other  girls  as  well." 

"  That's  his  artfulness,  George.  You  can't  hide 
these  things  from  a  woman — at  any  rate  if  she  has 
eyes  in  her  head  and  knows  how  to  use  them.  I'm  in- 
terested in  your  girls,  not  having  any  of  my  own,  so  I 
do  use  my  eyes.  He  may  not  be  ready  to  declare  him- 
self yet,  but  he  will,  sooner  or  later." 

"  I  should  hate  that,  you  know.  I  don't  believe  B 
would  take  it  on  for  a  moment  either.     Do  you.''  " 

"  I  don't  know.  If  I  thought  I  did  I'd  tell  you  so. 
But  why  should  you  hate  it.''  He's  just  like  an  English- 
man. And  he's  rich,  with  an  old  property  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  isn't  like  an  adventurer,  with  a  title 
that  comes  from  nobody  knows  where.  He'd  be  a  very 
good  match.     Why  should  you  hate  it.''" 

"  I  should  hate  one  of  the  girls  to  marry  a  foreigner. 
I've  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  I  don't  want  either 
of  them  to  marry  yet — certainly  not  my  little  B.  I 
want  them  at  home  for  a  bit.  I  haven't  had  enough  of 
them  yet.  We're  all  going  to  enjoy  ourselves  together 
here  for  a  year  or  two.  They  like  it  as  much  as  I  do. 
Even  B,  who's  enjoying  herself  in  London,  likes  to  come 
here  best, — bless  her.  She's  having  her  fling.  I  like 
'em  to  do  that ;  and  they're  not  like  other  girls,  always 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  125 

on  the  lookout  for  men.  They  make  friends  of  them, 
but  they  like  their  old  father  best,  after  all.  It  can't 
always  be  so,  I  know,  but  I'm  not  going  to  lose  them 
yet  awhile,  Mary." 

"  Well,  George,  you're  very  lucky  in  your  girls,  I 
will  say  that;  and  you  deserve  some  credit  for  it,  too. 
You  haven't  left  them  to  go  their  own  way  while  you 
went  yours,  as  lots  of  men  in  your  position  would  have 
done.  The  consequence  is  they  adore  you.  And  they 
always  will.  But  you  can't  expect  to  be  first  with 
them  when  their  time  comes.  You've  had  Caroline  now 
for  two  years  since  she's  grown  up,  and " 

"Well,  what  about  her.''  There's  nobody  head  over 
heels  in  love  with  her,  is  there .''  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  head  over  heels.  But  Francis 
Parry  is  in  love  with  her,  and  you'll  have  him  proposing 
very  shortly,  if  he  hasn't  done  it  already." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Mary,  you're  letting  your  match- 
making tendencies  get  the  better  of  you.  Now  you 
relieve  my  mind — about  B  I  mean.  If  there's  no  more 
in  it  than  that !  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  think.  They've  been  pals, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  for  years.  If  there  had  been 
more  than  that  it  would  have  come  out  long  ago.  Well, 
you'll  see.  /  say  that  it's  coming  out  now.  It  does 
happen  like  that,  you  know,  sometimes," 

Grafton  was  inclined  to  doubt  it.  He  liked  Francis 
Parry,  who  would  be  just  the  right  sort  of  match  for 
Caroline  besides,  if  it  should  take  them  in  that  sort  of 
way,  later  on.     But  that  sort  of  way  did  not  include 


126  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

a  sudden  *  falling  in  love  '  at  the  end  of  some  years' 
frank  and  free  companionship,  during  which  neither  of 
them  had  been  in  the  least  inclined  to  pine  at  such  times 
as  they  saw  little  of  one  another.  They  were  both  of 
them  much  too  sensible.  Their  liking  for  one  another 
gave  the  best  sort  of  promise  for  happiness  in  married 
life,  if  they  should,  by  and  by,  decide  to  settle  down 
together.  They  had  been  friends  for  years  and  they 
would  go  on  being  friends,  all  their  lives.  The  same 
could  not  be  said  for  all  married  couples,  nor  perhaps 
even  for  the  majority  of  them,  who  had  begun  by  being 
violently  in  love  with  one  another.  That,  at  any  rate, 
could  hardly  have  happened  within  the  last  few  days. 
Mary,  who  had  certainly  not  fallen  violently  in  love 
with  James,  though  she  was  undoubtedly  fond  of  him, 
and  made  him  a  very  good  wife,  was  over-sentimental 
in  these  matters,  and  had  seen  what  she  had  wanted  to 
see. 

He  had  a  slight  shock  of  surprise,  however,  not  al- 
together agreeable,  when  Caroline,  during  the  course 
of  the  morning,  told  him  of  what  had  happened  to  her. 

She  linked  her  arm  affectionately  in  his.  "  Come 
for  a  stroll,  darling,"  she  said.  "  It's  rather  nice  to 
have  got  rid  of  everybody,  and  be  just  ourselves  again, 
isn't  it?" 

She  led  him  to  the  lily  pond.  Although  everything 
was  finished  there  now,  and  neither  the  yews  nor  the 
newly  laid  turf  could  have  been  expected  to  come  to- 
gether between  their  frequent  visits,  they  went  to  look 
at  it  several  times  a  day,  just  to  see  how  it  was  get- 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  127 

ting  on.  So  there  was  no  difficulty  in  drawing  him 
there ;  and,  as  other  members  of  the  family  were  satis- 
fied with  less  frequent  inspection,  they  were  not  likely 
to  be  disturbed. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  she  said,  when  they  had  stood 
for  some  time  by  the  pool,  and  discussed  the  various 
water-lilies  that  they  had  sunk  there,  tied  up  between 
the  orthodox  turfs.     "  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

They  sat  down  on  the  stone  seat.  "  Talk  away ! " 
he  said,  taking  a  cigarette  out  of  his  case. 

Caroline  took  cigarette  and  case  away  from  him. 
"  Darling,"  she  said,  "  you  didn't  select  it.  In  books 
they  always  select  a  cigarette,  usually  with  care.  I'll 
do  it  for  you." 

She  gave  him  a  cigarette,  took  his  matchbox  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  lit  it  for  him.  "  I'm  really  only  doing 
this  to  save  time,"  she  said.  "  I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  The  last  time  I  sat  on  this  seat  I  was  pro- 
posed to." 

"  The  devil ! "  exclaimed  her  father,  staring  at  her. 

"  No,  darling,  not  the  devil.  I'm  not  so  bad  as  that. 
Don't  be  offensive  to  your  little  daughter — or  profane." 

"Who  was  it?     Francis  Parry?  " 

"  Yes,  darling.  You've  got  it  in  one.  It  was  last 
night.  The  moon  was  shining  and  the  yews  looked 
almost  like  a  real  hedge.  Rather  a  score  for  our  gar- 
den, I  think." 

He  took  a  draw  at  his  cigarette  and  inhaled  it. 
"  Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  take  it,  I  suppose  you 
didn't  accept  him,"  he  said. 


128  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Having  taken  the  fence  of  introducing  the  subject, 
she  became  more  serious.  "  No,  I  didn't  accept  him," 
she  said.  "  But  I  didn't  refuse  him  either.  I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  it  first." 

That  pleased  him.  At  this  time  of  day  one  no 
longer  expected  to  have  the  disposal  of  one's  daughter's 
hand,  or  to  be  asked  for  permission  to  pay  addresses 
to  her,  if  the  man  who  paid  them  was  justified  in  doing 
so  by  his  social  and  financial  position,  and  probably 
even  less  so  if  he  wasn't.  But  it  was  gratifying  that 
his  daughter  should  put  his  claims  on  her  so  high  that 
she  would  not  give  her  answer  until  she  had  consulted 
him  about  it  first. 

"  Well,  darling,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  marry 
anybody  just  yet.  But  Francis  Parry  is  a  very  nice 
fellow.  I'd  just  as  soon  you  married  him  as  anybody 
if  you  want  to.    Do  you?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  might,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "  I  do 
like  him.  I  think  we  should  get  on  all  right  together." 
There  was  a  slight  pause.  "  He  likes  Dickens,"  she 
added. 

Grafton  did  not  smile.  "  Mary  has  just  told  me 
that  you've  suddenly  fallen  in  love  with  one  another," 
he  said.  It  was  not  exactly  what  Mary  had  told  him, 
but  he  was  feeling  a  trifle  sore  with  her  for  seeing  some- 
thing that  he  hadn't,  and  for  another  reason  which  he 
hadn't  examined  yet. 

"  Aunt  Mary  is  too  clever  by  half,"  said  Caroline. 
"  She  couldn't  have  seen  anything  in  me  that  hasn't 
always  been  there.     But  Francis  did  say  he  loved  me. 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  129 

I  suppose  he  had  to,  didn't  he,  Dad?  No,  I  don't  mean 
that.  I  mean  he'd  expect  one  to  begin  with  that, 
wouldn't  he?  " 

He  was  touched;  he  couldn't  have  told  why,  unless 
it  was  from  some  waft  of  memory  from  his  own  wooing, 
which  had  certainly  begun  with  that.  He  put  his  arm 
round  her  and  kissed  her.  "  Do  you  love  him?  "  he 
asked  her. 

She  returned  his  kiss  warmly.  "  Not  half  as  much 
as  I  love  you,  darling  old  Daddy,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
want  to  go  away  from  you  for  a  long  time  yet.  Sup- 
posing I  tell  Francis  that  I  like  him  very  much,  but 
I  don't  want  to  marry  anybody  yet.  How  would  that 
do?" 

"  It  seems  to  fit  the  bill,"  he  said  in  a  lighter  tone. 
"  No,  don't  get  married  yet,  Cara.  We're  going  to 
have  a  lot  of  fun  here.  It  would  break  things  up  al- 
most before  they're  begun.  I  say,  is  there  anything 
between  Lassigny  and  B  ?  " 

She  laughed.  "Has  Aunt  Mary  seen  that  too?" 
she  asked. 

"  She  says  she  has.  Why!  have  you  seen  it?  Surely 
not !  " 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  looked  very  care- 
fully. They  like  each  other,  I  suppose,  just  as  he 
and  I  like  each  other.  He  hasn't  been  any  different 
to  me;  I  think  he's  been  as  much  with  me  as  he  has 
with  her." 

"  Yes,  but  B  herself,  I  mean.  She  wouldn't  want  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  foreigner,  would  she?  " 


130  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  How  British  you  are,  darling !  I  never  think  about 
M.  de  Lassigny  as  a  foreigner." 

"  I  do  though.  I  should  hate  one  of  you  girls  to 
marry  anybody  not  English.  B  doesn't  like  him  in  that 
way,  does  she?  " 

*'  I  don't  think  so,  dear.  I  don't  think  she  likes  any- 
body in  that  way  yet.  She's  just  like  I  was,  when  I 
first  came  out,  enjoying  herself  frightfully  and  making 
lots  of  friends.  He  was  one  of  the  people  I  liked  first 
of  all.  He's  interesting  to  talk  to.  She  likes  lots  of 
other  men  too.  In  fact  she  has  talked  to  me  about 
lots  of  them,  but  I  don't  think  she's  ever  mentioned 
him — before  he  came  here,  I  mean." 

Whether  that  fact  seemed  quite  convincing  to  Caro- 
line or  no,  it  relieved  her  father.  "  Oh,  I  don't  sup- 
pose there's  anything  in  it,"  he  said.  "  His  manners 
with  women  are  a  bit  more  elaborate  than  an  English- 
man's. I  suppose  that's  what  Mary  has  got  hold  of. 
I  must  say,  I  didn't  notice  him  paying  any  more  atten- 
tion to  B  than  to  you ;  or  Barbara  either,  for  that  mat- 
ter. Of  course  B  is  an  extraordinarily  pretty  girl. 
She's  bound  to  get  a  lot  of  notice,  I  hope  she  won't 
take  up  with  anybody  yet  awhile  though.  I  don't  want 
to  lose  her.  I  don't  want  to  lose  any  of  you.  Anyway, 
I  should  hate  losing  her  to  a  Frenchman." 

His  fears  were  further  reduced  by  Beatrix's  treat- 
ment of  him  during  that  day,  and  when  they  went  up  to 
London  together  the  next  morning.  She  was  very 
clinging  and  affectionate,  and  very  amusing  too. 
Surely   no   girl  who   was   not   completely   heart-whole 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  131 

could  have  been  so  light-hearted  and  merry  over  all 
the  little  experiences  of  life  that  her  entry  into  the 
world  was  bringing  her !  And  she  hardly  mentioned 
Lassigny's  name  at  all,  though  there  was  scarcely  one 
of  the  numerous  acquaintances  she  had  made  whom  she 
had  not  something  to  say  about,  and  generally  to  make 
fun  of.  Her  fun  was  never  ill-natured,  but  everybody 
and  everything  presented  itself  to  her  in  the  light  of  her 
gay  humour,  and  was  presented  to  her  audience  in  that 
light.  She  was  far  the  wittiest  of  the  three  of  them, 
and  her  bright  audacities  enchanted  her  father  when 
she  was  in  the  mood  for  them,  when  her  eyes  danced  and 
sparkled  with  mischief  and  her  laugh  rang  out  like 
music.  He  had  never  been  able  to  think  of  Beatrix  as 
quite  grown  up;  she  was  more  of  a  child  to  him  even 
than  Barbara,  whom  nobody  could  have  thought  of 
as  grown  up,  or  anywhere  near  it.  It  dismayed  him 
to  think  of  losing  her,  even  if  it  should  be  to  a  man  of 
whom  he  should  fully  approve.  But,  filling  his  eyes 
as  she  did  with  a  sense  of  the  sweet  perfection  of  girl- 
hood, he  was  wondering  if  it  were  possible  that  she  of 
all  the  girls  who  would  be  married  or  affianced  before 
the  season  was  over  would  escape,  even  if  there  was 
nothing  to  be  feared  as  to  the  particular  attachment 
that  had  been  put  into  his  mind. 

But  though  it  might  be  impossible  to  think  that  she 
would  tread  her  first  gay  measure  without  having  hearts 
laid  at  her  feet,  it  was  quite  possible  to  think  of  her  as 
dancing  through  it  without  picking  any  of  them  up. 
In  fact,  she  as  good  as  told  him  that  that  was  her 


182  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

attitude  towards  all  the  admiration  she  was  receiving 
when  she  went  up  to  fish  with  him  in  the  evening,  and 
was  as  charmingly  companionable  and  confidential  to 
him  as  even  he  could  wish  her  to  be. 

She  had  a  way  with  him  that  was  sweeter  to  him  even 
than  Caroline's  way.  Caroline  treated  him  as  her 
chosen  companion  among  all  men,  as  he  always  had  been 
so  far,  but  she  treated  him  as  an  equal,  almost  as  a 
brother,  though  with  a  devotion  not  often  shown  by 
sisters  to  brothers.  But  Beatrix  transformed  herself 
into  his  little  dog  or  slave.  She  behaved,  without  a 
trace  of  affection,  as  if  she  were  about  six  years  old. 
She  ran  to  fetch  and  carry  for  him,  she  tried  to  do 
things  that  he  did,  just  as  Bunting  did,  and  laughed 
at  herself  for  trying.  Caroline  often  put  her  face  up 
to  his  to  be  kissed,  but  Beatrix  would  take  his  hand, 
half-furtively,  and  kiss  it  softly  or  lay  it  to  her  cheek, 
or  snuggle  up  to  him  with  a  little  sigh  of  content,  as 
if  it  were  enough  for  her  to  be  with  him  and  adore  him. 
This  evening,  by  the  pool  at  the  edge  of  the  park, 
where  the  grass  was  full  of  flowers  and  the  grey  aspens 
and  heavy  elms  threw  their  shadows  across  the  water 
and  were  reflected  in  its  liquid  depths,  she  was  his 
gillie,  and  got  so  excited  on  the  few  occasions  on  which 
she  had  an  opportunity  of  using  the  landing-net,  that 
she  got  her  skirt  and  shoes  and  stockings  all  covered 
with  mud,  just  as  if  she  were  a  child  with  no  thought 
of  clothes,  instead  of  a  young  woman  at  the  stage  when 
they  are  of  paramount  importance. 

He  was   so  happy   with  this   manifestation  of  her, 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  133 

which  of  all  her  moods  he  loved  the  best,  that  the  dis- 
comfort he  had  felt  about  her  was  assuaged.  He  did 
not  even  want  to  ask  her  questions.  A  confiding  active 
child,  behaving  with  the  sexlessness  of  a  small  boy,  she 
was  so  far  removed  from  all  the  absorptions  of  love- 
making  that  it  would  have  seemed  almost  unnatural  to 
bring  them  to  her  mind. 

They  strolled  home  very  slowly,  she  carrying  for  him 
all  he  would  allow  her  to  carry  and  clinging  to  him 
closely,  even  making  him  put  his  arm  round  her  shoul- 
der, as  she  had  done  when  she  was  little,  so  that  she 
might  put  her  arm  around  his  waist. 

"  It's  lovely  being  with  you,  my  old  Daddywad,"  she 
said.  Then  she  sang  a  little  song  which  a  nurse  had 
taught  her,  and  with  the  mistakes  she  had  made  in 
her  babyhood,  and  with  the  nurse's  intonation: 

"  /  love  Daddy, 
My  dear  Daddy, 
And  I  know  vat  'e  loves  me; 
*E^s  my  blaymate, 
Raim  or  shine, 

Vere's  not  annover  Daddy  in  er  worV 
like  mine." 

She  laughed  softly,  and  gave  his  substantial  waist  a 
squeeze.  "  You  do  like  having  me  here,  don't  you. 
Daddy  darling?    You  do  miss  me  while  I'm  away?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  you  to 
be  here  always.  But  you  enjoy  yourself  in  London, 
don't  you?  " 


134  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  Not  half  as  much  as  I'm  enjoying  myself  now,"  she 
said.  It  was  just  what  Caroline  had  said.  There  was 
nobody  either  of  them  liked  to  be  with  so  much  as 
him.  "  When  it's  all  over  in  July  we'll  stay  here  for  a 
bit,  won't  we,  Dad.?  Don't  let's  go  abroad  this  year. 
I  like  this  much  better." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  abroad,"  he  said.  "  I  expect 
somebody  will  want  to  take  you  to  Cowes  though." 

"  I  don't  want  to  miss  Cowes.  I  mean  after  that. 
We'll  be  quiet  here  and  ask  very  few  people,  till  it's 
time  to  go  up  to  Scotland." 

"  Oh,  you're  going  to  Scotland,  are  you.''  " 

*'  Yes,  with  the  Ardrishaigs.  I  told  you,  darling. 
You  don't  love  your  little  daughter  enough  to  remem- 
ber what  she's  going  to  do  with  herself.  But  you  do 
like  me  to  enjoy  myself,  don't  you.''  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  And  you  are  enjoying  yourself 
like  anything,  aren't  you.f*  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I'm  having  spiffing  fun.  I  never  thought 
I  should  like  it  half  so  much.  It  makes  everything  so 
jolly.  I've  enjoyed  being  at  home  more  because  of  it, 
and  I  shall  enjoy  it  more  still  when  I  go  back  because 
I've  loved  being  in  the  quiet  country  and  having  fun 
with  you,  my  old  Daddy." 

"  You're  not  getting  your  head  turned,  with  all  the 
young  fellows  dancing  attendance  on  you.''  " 

She  laughed  clearly.  "  That's  the  best  fun  of  the 
lot,"  she  said.  "  They  are  so  silly,  a  lot  of  them.  I'm 
sure  you  weren't  like  that.  Did  you  fall  in  love  a  lot 
when  you  first  had  your  hair  up.''  " 


CAROLINE  AND  BEATRIX  135 

"  Once  or  twice.     It's  the  way  of  young  fellows." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  the  way  of  young  girls,  if  they're 
nice.  I'm  not  going  to  fall  in  love  yet,  if  I  ever  do.  I 
think  it  spoils  things.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  don't  rather 
like  their  falling  in  love  with  me  though.  I  should 
consider  it  rather  a  slight  if  some  of  them  didn't.  Be- 
sides, they  give  me  a  lot  of  quiet  fun." 

"  Well,  as  long  as  3'ou  don't  fall  in  love  yourself, 
just  yet I  don't  want  to  lose  you  yet  awhile." 

"  And  I  don't  want  to  lose  you,  my  precious  old 
Daddy.  I  can't  be  always  with  you.  I  must  have  my 
fling,  you  know.  But  I  love  to  feel  you're  just  round 
the  corner  somewhere.  I  never  forget  you,  darling, 
even  when  I'm  enjoying  myself  most." 

So  that  was  all  right.  He  was  first,  and  the  rest 
nowhere,  with  all  his  girls.  He  knew  more  about  them 
than  Mary  possibly  could.  He  would  have  to  give  them 
up  to  some  confounded  fellow  some  day,  but  even  that 
wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  they  took  it  as  Caroline  had  taken 
Francis  Parry's  proposal,  and  they  married  nice  fel- 
lows such  as  he  was,  who  wouldn't  really  divide  them 
from  their  father.  As  for  Lassigny,  there  was  evi- 
dently no  danger  of  anything  of  that  sort  happening. 
It  would  have  hurt  his  little  B  to  suggest  such  a  thing, 
by  way  of  sounding  her,  and  he  was  glad  he  hadn't 
done  it. 


CHAPTER    X 

A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER 

"  I  DO  love  motoring,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer,  "  especially 
on  a  lovely  summer  evening  like  this.  I  wish  we  had 
got  a  car  of  our  own,  Albert." 

"  My  dear,  when  you  married  a  poor  country  clergy- 
man," said  the  Vicar,  "  you  renounced  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  We  must  be  content  with  our  one-hoss  shay. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  all  the  clergy  of  the  Church  of 
England  will  be  properly  paid  for  devoting  their  lives 
to  the  good  of  the  community,  instead  of  only  a  few 
of  them.  The  labourer  is  worthy  of  his  car.  Ha !  ha ! 
But  I'm  afraid  it  won't  happen  in  our  time,  if  it  ever 
happens  at  all.  Too  many  Socialists  and  Radicals 
gnashing  their  teeth  at  us.  In  the  meantime  let's  take 
the  little  pleasures  that  come  in  our  way,  and  not  envy 
those  who  are  better  off  than  we  are.  We  must  never 
forget  that  there  are  some  who  might  think  they  had 
a  right  to  envy  us." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer.  "  We  are  very 
well  off,  really.  I'm  sure  I  don't  envy  anybody.  And  I 
really  am  enjoying  myself  now,  and  am  going  to,  all  the 
evening." 

They  were  on  their  way  to  dine  with  the  Pembertons 
at  Grays.     As  the  Vicarage  horse  was  getting  a  trifle 

136 


A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER  137 

too  aged  to  be  called  upon  to  make  an  effort  of  ten 
miles  each  way  the  Vicar  had  borrowed  a  car  from  the 
Abbey,  and  was  now  being  carried  softly  through  the 
country,  which  was  at  its  most  peaceful  and  soothing 
on  a  fine  evening  of  early  July,  with  the  hay  scenting 
the  air  and  the  sun  slanting  its  rays  over  the  wide 
and  varied  landscape. 

"  It  was  kind  of  Caroline  to  let  us  have  the  car," 
said  Mrs.  Mercer,  reverting  to  the  subject  a  little  later. 
"  It  would  have  taken  us  hours  to  get  there  with  poor 
old  Tiglath-Pilezer,  and  I  shouldn't  have  liked  to 
bicycle  to  dinner  at  a  house  like  Grays.  I'm  glad  she 
sent  us  an  open  car.  One  sees  the  lovely  country  so 
much  better." 

"  It's  the  smallest  car  they  have,"  said  the  Vicar ; 
"  and  I  should  have  preferred  a  closed  one  for  coming 
home  in.  However,  we  mustn't  grumble.  It's  very 
kind,  as  you  say,  for  his  rich  parishioners  to  lend  their 
clergyman  a  car  at  all." 

"  I  wonder  who  will  be  there  to-night,"  said  Mrs. 
Mercer.  "  Do  you  think  it  will  be  a  big  dinner-party, 
Albert?  I  really  think  I  must  get  a  new  dress,  if  we  are 
to  begin  dining  out  again.  I  am  quite  ashamed  to  ap- 
pear in  this  one  at  the  Abbey.  I've  worn  it  so  often 
there." 

"  Mrs.  Pemberton  asked  us  in  quite  an  informal 
way,"  said  the  Vicar,  ignoring  the  latter  part  of  his 
wife's  speech.  "  There  may  be  others  there,  or  there 
may  be  just  ourselves.  I  must  confess  I  should  rather 
like  to  meet  a  few  people  from  the  other  side  of  the 


138  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

county.  The  Pembertons  are  quite  on  the  edge  of  our 
circle,  and  they're  about  the  only  decent  people  in  it." 

"  Except  our  own  people  at  Ablngton,"  Mrs.  Mercer 
corrected  him.  "  We  are  very  lucky  in  the  Graftons, 
I  must  say." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  we  are,  as  things  go,"  said  the 
Vicar.  "  I  would  rather  have  had  regular  countr^^ 
people,  though,  than  rich  Londoners.  They  get 
absorbed  in  their  friends  whom  they  bring  down,  and 
aren't  of  so  much  use  to  their  country  neighbours  as 
they  might  be." 

"  Oh,  but  Albert,  they  so  often  ask  us  to  dine.  I'm 
sure  they  are  very  hospitable." 

"  I  don't  know  that  they've  asked  us  so  very  often. 
They've  asked  us  very  seldom  when  they've  had  their 
smart  parties.  I  suppose,  as  country  bumpkins,  we're 
not  good  enough.  There  isn't  the  intimate  air  about 
the  house,  either,  that  one  might  expect.  There's  a 
formality.  They  don't  seem  to  know  what  to  do  when 
one  just  drops  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,  or  perhaps  just  to 
say  something  in  the  morning.  They're  not  used  to 
that  sort  of  thing  in  London ;  I  know  that  perfectly 
well.  But  they  ought  to  know  that  it's  usual  in  the 
country,  and  not  make  such  a  business  of  it.  I  hate 
always  being  announced  by  that  pompous  old  Jarvis. 
One  ought  to  be  able  to  run  in  and  out  of  the  house, 
just  as  one  does,  for  instance,  with  the  Walters.  They 
never  do  it  with  us  either.  It's  chiefly  owing  to  Miss 
Waterhouse.  A  governess,  as  I  suppose  she  was,  and 
been  put  into  a  position  that's  been  too  much  for  her ! 


A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER  139 

There  isn't  the  friendliness  I  like  to  see  in  young  girls." 

"  Perhaps  they're  rather  afraid  of  you,  dear.  They 
always  give  me  quite  a  nice  welcome,  if  I  happen  to  go 
there  without  you,  which  I  don't  very  often  do.  And 
they  do  run  in  and  out  of  the  cottage,  and  Mollie  goes 
there.  I'm  glad  they  have  taken  such  a  fancy  to  Mollie. 
She's  come  out  wonderfully  since  they  made  a  friend 
of  her." 

"  She  has  come  out  a  little  too  much  for  my  taste.  I 
feared  it  would  turn  her  head  to  be  taken  notice  of,  and 
I  ventured  to  give  a  friendly  word  of  warning,  which 
was  not  received  as  it  should  have  been — by  Miss 
Waterhouse,  whom  it  really  had  nothing  to  do  with. 
I'm  sorry  to  have  to  say  it  of  Mollie,  but  I'm  sadly 
afraid  there's  something  of  the  snob  in  her.  More  than 
once  she  has  had  an  engagement  at  the  Abbey  when  I 
wanted  her  to  do  something  for  me.  Of  course  people 
living  in  a  big  house  come  before  old  friends.  That's 
understood.  But  I  didn't  think  Mollie  would  turn  out 
like  that,  I  must  confess." 

"  Oh,  but  Albert  dear,  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't  neglect 
you  for  anybody.  You've  been  so  kind  to  her,  and  it 
has  meant  such  a  lot  to  her,  your  making  a  companion 
of  her,  and  all.  But,  of  course,  it  is  nice  for  girls  to 
have  other  girls  to  be  friends  with.  I'm  sure  it  would 
be  just  the  same  if  the  Graf  tons  lived  in  a  small  house 
instead  of  a  big  one." 

"  I  beg  leave  to  doubt  it,  Gertrude.  But  here  we 
are.  The  drive  is  about  half  a  mile  long.  We  shan't 
see  the  house  for  some  distance  yet." 


140  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

They  had  turned  in  at  some  handsome  lodge  gates, 
and  were  going  along  a  winding  road  which  ran  between 
iron  railings,  with  fields  on  either  side  of  it. 

"  It's  not  so  nice  as  the  park  at  Abington," 
said  Mrs.  Mercer ;  "  more  like  a  farm  road  ex- 
cept for  the  lodge.  Is  Grays  as  big  a  house  as 
the  Abbey?" 

"  Bigger,  I  should  say,"  said  her  husband.  "  The 
Pembertons  are  a  very  old  Meadshire  family.  I  looked 
them  up  in  a  book  in  the  library  at  the  Abbey.  Ex- 
cept the  Clintons,  over  the  other  side,  they  are  the 
oldest.  They  have  often  married  into  titled  families. 
They  are  a  good  deal  better  than  the  Graftons,  I 
should  say.  Sir  James  Grafton  is  only  the  third  baro- 
net, and  his  grandfather  was  a  jeweller  in  Nottingham, 
the  book  says.  Of  course,  they've  made  money,  which 
stands  for  everything  in  these  days.  Oh,  how  that  made 
me  jump !  " 

Another  car  had  come  up  behind  them,  of  which 
the  powerful  horn  had  given  warning  that  room  was 
asked  for  it.  The  smaller  car  had  changed  gears  at 
the  beginning  of  the  rise,  and  the  larger  one  swung 
by  it  as  it  made  way.  Three  girls  were  sitting  to- 
gether on  the  back  seat,  and  waved  as  they  were  car- 
ried past.  They  were  Caroline  and  Beatrix,  with 
Mollie  sitting  between  them. 

"  Now  what  on  earth  does  that  mean  !  "  exclaimed  the 
Vicar,  in  a  tone  of  annoyance.  "  Mollie  coming  to 
dine  here !  But  she  doesn't  even  know  them.  And  why 
didn't  Caroline  tell  me  they  were  coming,  when  I  asked 


A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER  141 

her  for  the  car?  Why  couldn't  we  all  have  come  to- 
gether? " 

These  questions  were  presently  answered.  Bertie 
Pemberton  had  come  down  from  London  in  the  after- 
noon and  brought  a  friend  with  him.  A  car  had  been 
sent  over  to  Abington  to  ask  that  everi/hody  who  hap- 
pened to  be  there  should  come  over  and  dine.  Caroline 
was  also  particularly  asked  to  persuade  little  Miss 
Walter  to  come  with  them,  and  to  take  no  denial.  A 
note  would  be  taken  to  her,  but  perhaps  she  wouldn't 
come  unless  she  were  pressed.  This  last  piece  of  in- 
formation, however,  was  not  imparted  to  the  Vicar, 
and  he  was  left  wondering  how  on  earth  Mollie  came  to 
be  there,  and  with  the  full  determination  to  find  out 
later. 

There  was  nothing  lacking  in  the  warmth  of  welcome 
accorded  to  their  guests  by  the  whole  Pemberton  fam- 
ily, which  could  hardly  have  been  more  loudly  ex- 
pressed if  they  had  come  to  dine  in  an  asj'lum  for  the 
deaf,  and  were  qualified  for  residence  there.  The  Vicar 
had  quite  forgotten  his  dislike  of  this  noisy  cheerful 
family.  He  had  bicycled  over  on  a  hot  day  to  see 
Mrs.  Pemberton,  had  found  that  she  had  forgotten 
who  he  was  for  the  moment,  but  by  engaging  her  in 
conversation  on  the  subjects  of  which  she  had  pre- 
viously unbosomed  herself  had  regained  the  interest  she 
had  shown  in  him.  He  had  been  given  his  cup  of  tea, 
and  shown  the  village  hall,  and  told  that  the  next  time 
he  came  over  he  must  come  to  lunch.  Then  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton had  left  cards  at  Abington  Vicarage — the  Vicar 


142  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

and  his  wife  being  out,  unfortunately,  at  the  time, — anid 
before  they  could  return  the  call  had  asked  them  to 
dine.  It  was  an  acquaintanceship,  begun  under  the 
happiest  auspices,  which  the  Vicar  quite  hoped  would 
ripen  into  a  genuine  friendship.  He  was  inclined  to 
like  the  free-and-easy  ways  of  real  old-established  coun- 
try people.  They  were  apt,  possibly,  to  think  too 
much  about  horses  and  dogs,  but  that  did  not  prevent 
their  taking  a  genuine  interest  in  their  fellow-creatures, 
especially  those  who  were  dependent  on  them  for  a  good 
deal  of  their  satisfaction  in  life.  Mrs.  Pemberton,  al- 
though she  didn't  look  it,  was  a  woman  who  did  a  great 
deal  of  good.  She  would  have  made  an  admirable 
clergyman's  wife. 

Father  Brill,  the  Vicar  of  Grays,  was  also  dining, 
in  a  cassock.  He  had  only  been  in  the  place  for  three 
months,  but  had  already  established  his  right  to  be 
called  Father  and  to  wear  a  cassock  instead  of  a  coat. 
He  was  a  tall  spare  man  with  a  commanding  nose  and 
an  agreeable  smile.  Old  Mr.  Pemberton  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  him,  though  he  was  very  outspoken  with  re- 
gard to  his  eccentricities.  But  he  chaffed  him  just  as 
freely  to  his  face  as  he  criticised  him  to  others.  His 
attitude  towards  him  was  rather  like  that  of  a  fond 
father  towards  a  mischievous  child.  "  What  do  you 
think  that  young  rascal  of  mine  has  been  doing  now.''  " 
was  the  note  on  which  his  references  to  Father  Brill 
were  based. 

The  Vicar,  who  was  '  low  '  in  doctrine,  but  inclined 
to  be  '  high  '  in  practice — where  it  didn't  matter — had 


A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER  143 

cautiously  commiserated  Mrs.  Pemberton  on  the  ex- 
travagances of  her  pastor  during  his  first  visit.  But 
he  had  discovered  that  they  caused  her  no  anxiety.  The 
only  thing  she  didn't  care  about  was  '  this  confession  ' 
— auricular,  she  believed  they  called  it.  But  as  long 
as  she  wasn't  expected  to  confess  herself,  which  she 
should  be  very  sorry  to  do,  as  it  would  be  so  awkward 
to  ask  Father  Brill  to  dinner  after  it,  she  wasn't  going 
to  make  any  fuss.  It  would  possibly  do  the  young 
men  of  the  place  a  lot  of  good  to  confess  their  sins  to 
Father  Brill,  if  he  could  induce  them  to  do  so ;  she  was 
prett}'  certain  it  would  do  Bertie  good,  but,  of  course, 
he  would  never  do  it.  As  for  the  women,  if  they  wanted 
to  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  well,  let  'em.  Father 
Brill  wasn't  likely  to  do  them  any  harm — with  that 
nose.  What  she  should  have  objected  to  would  be  to 
be  interfered  with  in  the  things  she  ran  herself  in  the 
parish.  But  they  got  on  all  right  together  there.  In 
fact,  she  went  her  way  and  Father  Brill  went  his,  and 
neither  of  them  interfered  with  the  other. 

The  two  clergymen  sat  on  either  side  of  their  hostess, 
and  the  Vicar  was  rather  inclined  to  envy  the  easy 
terms  that  Father  Brill  was  on  with  her.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  him  to  treat  a  lady  in  Mrs.  Pemberton's 
position  with  anything  but  deference,  to  listen  to  her 
opinions  politely,  and  not  to  press  his  own  when  they 
differed  from  hers.  But  here  was  Father  Brill  actually 
inviting  her  to  discussion,  and,  while  listening  politely 
to  what  she  had  to  say,  finding  food  for  amusement  in 
it,  and  by  no  means  hiding  his  amusement  from  her. 


144.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  I'm  afraid  you  must  be  a  good  deal  older  than  you 
admit  to,"  he  said.  "  You  must  have  gained  your 
opinions  in  girlhood,  and  they  are  about  those  that  were 
held  in  the  thirties  and  forties  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. That  would  make  3"ou  about  ninety-three  now, 
and  I  must  admit  that  you  wear  very  well  for  your 
age." 

Mrs.  Pemberton  seemed  so  to  enjoy  this  kind  of 
treatment  that  the  Vicar  took  a  leaf  out  of  Father 
Brill's  book  and  became  a  good  deal  more  familiar,  on 
the  same  lines,  than  he  had  ever  thought  of  being  in 
such  a  house  as  that,  or  at  least  with  the  older  in- 
habitants of  such  a  house.  Perhaps  he  kept  rather  too 
much  to  the  same  lines.  He  asked  Mrs.  Pemberton 
whether  she  wore  a  wig,  which  as  a  matter  of  fact  she 
did,  though  he  was  far  from  suspecting  it ;  and  as 
religious  matters  were  being  treated  in  a  light  vein,  to 
which  he  had  no  objection,  as  long  as  anything  like 
profanity  was  excluded,  he  begged  her,  if  she  should 
ever  change  her  mind  about  confession,  to  confess  to 
him  and  not  to  Father  Brill.  "  I  assure  you,  my  dear 
lady,"  he  said — Father  Brill  had  once  or  twice  called 
her  '  my  dear  lady ' — that  I  shan't  breathe  a  word  of 
what  you  say  to  anybody — and  I'm  quite  ready  to  be 
agreeably  shocked." 

.  Father  Brill's  eyebrows  met  ominously  over  his  huge 
nose,  and  Mrs.  Pemberton  looked  in  some  surprise  at 
the  Vicar,  and  then  took  a  glance  at  his  wine-glass. 
But  at  that  moment  Mr.  Pemberton  called  out  some- 
thing to  her  from  the  foot  of  the  table,  and  Effie  Pem- 


A  DRIVE  AND  A  DINNER  145 

berton  who  was  sitting  on  the  right  of  the  Vicar  en- 
gaged him  in  talk.  Otherwise  he  would  have  exploited 
this  vein  still  further,  for  he  felt  he  was  making  rather 
a  success  of  it. 

His  wife,  meantime,  was  enjoying  herself  immensely. 
The  young  people  were  all  laughing  and  talking  gaily, 
and  she  was  not  left  out  of  it.  Old  Mr.  Pemberton 
addressed  long  narratives  to  her,  but  occasionally 
broke  off  to  shout  out:  "Eh,  what's  that?  I  didn't 
hear  that,"  if  an  extra  burst  of  laughter  engaged  his 
attention;  and  after  such  an  interruption  he  would 
usually  address  himself  next  to  Caroline,  who  was  sit- 
ting on  the  other  side  of  him.  So  Mrs.  Mercer  found 
that  she  need  not  devote  herself  entirely  to  him,  and 
laughed  away  as  merrily  as  any  of  them,  if  there 
was  anything  to  laugh  at,  which  there  generally 
was. 

They  really  were  nice,  these  Pembertons,  in  spite  of 
their  loudness  and  their  horsey  tastes.  Kate  sat  next 
to  her,  and  looked  very  handsome,  with  her  abundant 
hair  beautifully  dressed  and  her  white  firm  flesh  lib- 
erally displayed.  She  was  some  years  younger  than 
her  sisters,  and  had  not  yet  acquired  that  almost 
weather-beaten  look  which  is  apt  to  overtake  young 
country  women  who  spend  the  greater  part  of  their 
waking  hours  out  of  doors,  and  was  already  beginning 
to  show  in  Nora  and  EfRe.  She  had  a  great  deal  to  say 
to  Bertie's  friend  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  her,  but 
she  by  no  means  neglected  Mrs.  Mercer,  and  whenever 
conversation  was  general  brought  her  into  it.    She  also 


146  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

occasionally  talked  to  her  alone,  when  Mr.  Pemberton 
was  engaged  with  Caroline. 

"  I  like  that  little  Waters  girl,  or  whatever  her 
name  is,"  she  said  on  one  of  these  occasions,  looking 
across  to  where  Mollie  was  sitting  between  Nora  and 
Bertie  Pemberton.  "  She's  quiet,  but  she  does  know 
how  to  laugh.     Quite  pretty  too." 

"  Oh,  she's  a  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer  enthusias- 
tically. "  We  are  awfully  fond  of  her.  I  don't  know 
what  my  husband  would  do  without  her." 

Kate  laughed.  "  That's  what  Bertie  seems  to  be 
feeling,"  she  said.  "  He  spotted  her  when  we  went  over 
to  Abington  the  other  day.  We  rather  chaffed  him 
about  it,  as  the  Grafton  girls  are  so  extraordinarily 
pretty,  and  we  hadn't  taken  so  much  notice  of  her  our- 
selves. But  he  insisted  upon  her  being  sent  for  to- 
night, and  made  Nora  write.  I'm  glad  she  came.  We 
all  three  make  pals  of  men,  but  we  like  girls  too.  I 
hope  we  shall  see  more  of  her.  I  expect  we  shall,  if 
Bertie  has  anything  to  do  with  it." 

She  turned  to  her  other  neighbour,  and  Mrs.  Mercer 
looked  across  to  where  Bertie  Pemberton  was  enter- 
taining Mollie  with  some  vivacious  narrative  that  was 
making  her  laugh  freely.  It  was  quite  true  that  she 
could  laugh,  and  looked  very  pretty  as  she  did  so.  Mrs. 
Mercer  had  had  no  idea  how  pretty  she  really  was. 
Her  generous  heart  gave  a  jump  of  pleasure  as  she 
saw  how  Bertie  Pemberton  was  addressing  himself  to 
her.  Supposing — only  supposing — that  that  should 
happen !    How  perfectly  splendid  for  dear  little  Mollie, 


A  DUIVE  and  a  dinner  147 

who  had  had  such  a  dull  life,  but  was  worth  any  sort 
of  life  that  could  be  given  her.  And  how  pleased  her 
husband  would  be !  They  would  have  something  to 
talk  about  when  they  went  home. 

They  played  round  games  at  a  table  in  the  drawing- 
room — all  of  them,  including  Mr.  Pemberton,  who  did 
not  like  to  be  left  out  of  anything — to  an  accompani- 
ment of  much  shouting  and  laughter.  The  two  cars  were 
kept  waiting  for  half  an  hour  before  the  guests  de- 
parted, and  they  returned  as  they  had  come.  The 
Vicar  had  Avantcd  Mollie  to  accompany  him  and  his 
wife,  but  as  she  had  hesitated,  with  a  glance  at  Bea- 
trix, which  plainly  showed  her  own  wishes  in  the  mat- 
ter, Caroline  had  put  in  her  claim  and  settled  it  for  her. 

So  the  Vicar  started  on  the  homeward  drive  not  in 
the  best  of  humours,  especially  as  the  other  car  was 
being  kept  back  while  the  three  girls  were  still  laugh- 
ing and  talking  as  if  they  were  going  to  stay  all  night, 
although  he  and  his  wife  had  been  permitted  to  leave 
when  they  were  ready  to  do  so. 

"  Really,  Miss  Caroline  has  a  fairly  abrupt  way 
with  her  when  it  suits  her,"  he  said.  "  If  we  hadn't 
been  indebted  to  her  for  the  loan  of  the  car,  I  should 
certainly  have  insisted  that  Mollie  come  with  us.  We 
live  nearly  opposite,  and  the  Pemberton's  car  will  have 
to  go  out  of  the  way  to  take  her  home.  Mollie  ought 
to  have  had  the  sense  to  see  it  herself,  and  the  pluck 
to  take  matters  into  her  own  hands.  She  is  allowing 
herself  to  be  led  away  by  all  the  notice  she  is  receiving. 
I  have  yet  to  learn  exactly  how  it  was  that  she  came 


148  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

to  be  here  to-night.  There's  something  I  don't  under- 
stand, and  I  don't  quite  like  it." 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  3'ou  all  about  that,  Albert  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Mercer  eagerly.  "  I've  been  longing  to  tell 
you,  and  you'll  be  so  pleased.  It  was  Bertie  Pember- 
ton.  He  has  taken  an  immense  fancy  to  Mollie,  and 
it  was  he  who  insisted  that  she  should  be  sent  for  with 
the  Grafton  girls.  Kate  told  me  so  herself,  and  they 
like  her  so  much,  and  they  are  going  to  make  Mrs. 
Pemberton  call  on  Mrs.  Walter,  and  have  Mollie  over 
there  often.  Just  fancy,  if  anything  should  come  of 
it!" 

"  Well,  I  never ! "  said  the  Vicar  in  his  coldest 
tones. 

Mrs.  Mercer  felt  the  drop  in  the  temperature.  "  But 
it  would  be  such  a  splendid  thing  for  Mollie,  dear,"  she 
pleaded,  "  and  she  does  so  come  out  in  company.  I 
thought  she  looked  quite  as  pretty  as  the  Grafton  girls 
to-night,  and  I  was  quite  proud  of  her,  the  way  she 
behaved,  enjo3'ing  herself,  but  never  pushing  herself 
forward,  and  everybody  liking  her  and  all." 

"  If  you've  quite  finished,  Gertrude,"  said  the  Vicar, 
as  coldly  as  before,  "  I  should  like  to  saj'  something. 
I'd  no  idea — no  idea  whatever — that  it  was  on  that 
young  man's  invitation  that  Mollie  was  there  to-night 
and " 

"  Oh,  but  it  wasn't,  dear.  It  was  Nora  who  wrote 
to  her.     Of  course  he  wouldn't  have  done  it." 

"  Let  me  finish,  please.  Here  is  a  young  girl  living, 
with  her  mother,  almost  under  our  protection.     What- 


A  Dl^IVE  AND  A  DINNER  149 

ever  friends  they  have  made  here  they  have  made 
through  us.  I  was  glad  enough  for  MolHe  to  be  taken 
up  by  the  Graftons,  although  she  does  not  belong  to 
their  class  by  birth,  and  there  is  some  danger  of  her 
thinking  herself  their  equal  in  a  way  which  they  may 
perhaps  come  not  to  like,  if  she  pushes  it  too  far. 
That  is  why  I  wished  her  not  to  go  to  the  Abbey  too 
much,  unless  I,  or  you,  were  with  her.  I  feel  a  re- 
sponsibility towards  the  girl." 

"  But,  Albert  dear,  surely  it  has  got  past  that  now ! 
She's  their  friend  just  as  much  as  we  are.  And  they 
love  having  her  there." 

"  Please  let  me  finish,  Gertrude.  I  know  she's  their 
friend,  and  now  see  what  it  has  led  to !  By  your  own 
showing,  Mrs.  Pemberton  doesn't  even  know  Mrs.  Wal- 
ter. She  is  only  going  to  call  on  her,  because  her 
daughter  is  going  to  vialce  her.  Yet,  on  the  invitation 
of  a  young  man,  who  has  taken  a  fancy  to  her, — well, 
on  his  sister's  invitation  then,  if  you  must  be  so  par- 
ticular, which  she,  this  time,  is  made  to  give, — Mollie 
can  so  far  forget  herself  as  to  go  to  the  house  of 
perfect  strangers  and  be  entertained  by  them.  Why, 
it's  lending  herself  to — to — I'd  really  rather  not  say 
what.  To  me  it  seems  perfectly  outrageous.  Have 
you,  I  should  like  to  ask,  really  looked  upon  Mollie  in 
the  light  of  a  girl  that  any  young  man  can  throw  down 
his  glove  to,  and  she'll  pick  it  up  r  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Albert  dear,"  expostulated  Mrs.  Mercer, 
greatly  distressed  by  the  suggestion.  "  It  isn't  like 
that  at  all.     She  isn't  like  that,  and  I'm  sure  he  isn't 


150  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

like  that  either.  I  was  watching  him  at  dinner,  and 
afterwards,  and  I  believe  he  really  is  in " 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,"  said  the  Vicar 
abruptly,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  seat  and  folding 
his  arms.  "  I  shall  call  on  Mrs.  Walter  to-morrow  and 
have  it  out  with  her — and  with  Mollie." 

There  was  a  toot  of  a  big  bass  horn  behind  them,  and 
the  other  car  went  sliding  past.  The  three  girls  were 
sitting  together  as  before,  and  waved  gaily  to  them  as 
they  passed.  Mrs.  Mercer  returned  the  greeting.  The 
Vicar  took  no  notice  of  it  at  all,  and  remained  ob- 
stinately silent  for  the  rest  of  the  drive  home. 


CHAPTER    XI 
CAROLINE 

Caroline  awoke  very  early  one  morning  in  mid-July, 
disturbed  perhaps  by  the  light  and  the  soft  stillness. 
She  had  been  in  London  during  the  week,  where  she  had 
been  wont  to  sleep  late,  in  a  darkened  room.  She  had 
enjoyed  her  dinners  and  her  plays  and  her  parties, 
but  she  had  a  great  sense  of  happiness  and  peace  as 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  realised  that  she  was  in  London 
no  longer,  but  in  her  large  airy  room  at  Abington, 
with  the  sweet  fresh  world  of  the  country  all  about 
her,  and  no  engagements  of  any  sort  before  her  that 
would  prevent  her  from  enjoying  it. 

The  London  season  was  over  now;  she  had  only 
spent  the  inside  of  three  weeks  away  from  Abington 
since  they  had  first  come  there,  and  the  days  had 
seemed  to  go  more  quickly  than  at  any  time  she  had 
known.  They  had  been  contented  and  peaceful ;  she 
had  never  known  a  dull  moment,  with  all  the  little 
tasks  and  pleasures  she  had  found  to  her  hand,  not  even 
when  she  and  Barbara  and  Miss  Waterhouse  had  been 
alone  in  the  house  together.  The  Saturdays  and  Sun- 
days had  been  happy,  with  her  father  there,  who  seemed 
to  belong  to  her  now  more  than  he  had  ever  done,  for 
many  of  her  pleasures  were  his,  and  he  shared  her  en- 
joyment of  a  life  far  simpler  in  its  essence  than  any 

151 


152  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

she  had  known  since  she  had  grown  up,  or  than  he  had 
known  at  any  time  within  her  experience.  It  had  been 
quite  exciting  to  look  forward  to  the  Friday  evenings ; 
and  the  guests  who  sometimes  came  down  with  him 
had  filled  all  her  desire  for  society  other  than  that  of 
her  family,  or  the  people  she  saw  from  the  houses 
around. 

And  now  they  were  going  to  live  the  life  of  their 
home  together,  at  least  for  some  weeks.  Her  father  was 
giving  himself  one  of  his  numerous  holidays,  and  was 
going  to  spend  it  entirely  at  Abington.  Beatrix  was 
coming  home  after  she  had  gone  to  Cowes  and  before 
she  went  to  Scotland.  Bunting  would  be  home  for  his 
summer  holidays  in  a  week  or  so.  It  was  a  delightful 
prospect,  and  gave  her  more  pleasure  than  she  had 
gained  from  the  after-season  enjoyments  of  previous 
years.  She  had  refused  an  invitation  to  Cowes,  and 
another  to  Scotland.  She  might  go  up  there  later, 
perhaps.  At  present  she  wanted  nothing  but  Abington 
— to  feel  that  she  belonged  there,  and  her  days  would 
remain  the  same  as  long  as  she  cared  to  look  forward. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  just  to  look  out 
on  the  sweetness  of  the  early  morning,  and  the  flowers 
and  the  trees.  As  she  stood  there,  she  saw  her  father 
come  round  the  corner  of  the  house.  He  was  dressed, 
untidily  for  him,  in  a  grey  flannel  suit  and  a  scarf 
round  his  neck  instead  of  a  collar,  and  he  carried  in 
one  hand  a  wooden  trug  full  of  little  pots  and  in  the 
other  a  trowel.  He  was  walking  fast,  as  if  he  had  busi- 
ness on  hand. 


CAROLINE  153 

Something  impelled  her  to  keep  silent,  and  she  drew 
back  a  little  to  watch  him.  He  went  down  the  broad 
central  path  of  the  formal  garden  on  to  which  her 
windows  looked,  on  his  way  to  the  new  rock-garden, 
which  had  been  another  of  their  spring  enterprises. 
He  had  brought  down  the  night  before  some  big  cases 
of  rock-plants,  and  had  evidently  not  been  able  to  wait 
to  go  out  and  play  with  them. 

A  very  soft  look  came  over  Caroline's  face  as  she 
watched  him.  She  felt  maternal.  Men  were  so  like 
babies,  with  their  toys.  And  this  was  such  a  nice  toy 
for  the  dear  boy,  and  so  different  from  the  expensive 
grown-up  toys  he  had  played  with  before.  He  looked 
so  young  too,  with  his  active  straight-backed  figure. 
At  a  back-view,  with  his  hat  hiding  his  hair,  he  might 
have  been  taken  for  quite  a  young  man.  And  in  mind 
he  was  one,  especially  when  he  was  at  home  at  Abington. 
There  was  none  of  all  the  3'oung  men  with  whom  Caro- 
line had  made  friends  whom  she  liked  better  to  be  with, 
not  only  because  she  loved  him,  but  because  with  none 
of  them  could  she  talk  so  freely  or  receive  so  much  in 
return.  There  was  nothing  in  her  life  about  which  she 
could  not  or  did  not  talk  to  him.  Francis  Parry's  pro- 
posal— she  had  not  been  at  ease  until  she  had  told  him 
about  it  and  of  all  that  was  in  her  mind  with  regard 
to  it.  Surely  they  were  nearer  together  than  most 
fathers  and  daughters,  and  always  would  be  so. 

She  thought  she  would  go  down  and  help  him  with  his 
plantings  and  potterings.  She  loved  him  so  much  that 
she  wanted  to  see  that  look  of  pleasure  on  his  face  that 


154  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

she  knew  would  come  at  the  agreeable  surprise  she 
would  bring  him.  Perhaps  she  would  be  able  to  steal 
up  behind  him  without  his  seeing  her,  and  then  she 
would  get  this  plain  sign  of  his  love  for  her  and  his 
pleasure  in  her  unexpected  appearance  brought  out  of 
him  suddenly.     She  had  something  more  to  tell  him  too. 

She  dressed  and  went  down.  She  collected  her  gar- 
den gloves,  a  trowel  and  a  trug,  and  then  went  into  the 
empt}'  echoing  back  regions  where  the  cases  of  plants 
had  been  unpacked,  and  took  out  some  more  of  the  little 
pots.  The}'  were  mostly  thymes,  in  every  creeping 
variety.  She  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do,  then — 
furnish  the  rocky  staircase,  which  he  and  two  of  the 
gardeners  had  built  themselves,  after  the  main  part 
of  the  rock-garden  had  been  finished  and  planted  with 
professional  assistance.  It  was  rather  late  to  be  plant- 
ing anything,  but  garden  novices  take  little  heed  of 
seasons  when  they  are  once  bitten  with  the  planting 
and  moving  mania,  and  if  some  of  the  plants  should  be 
lost  they  could  replace  them  before  the  next  flowering 
season. 

The  clock  in  the  church  tower  struck  six  as  she  let 
herself  out  into  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  garden.  She 
had  to  go  across  the  little  cloistered  court  and  all  round 
the  house,  and  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  front  of  it 
to  look  over  the  gentle  undulations  of  the  park,  where 
the  deer  were  feeding  on  the  dew-drenched  grass,  and 
the  bracken  grew  tall  on  the  slopes  sentinelled  by  the 
great  beeches.  She  had  never  been  able  to  make  up  her 
mind  whether   or   not   she   liked   the   church   and   the 


CAROLINE  155 

churchyard  being  so  near  the  house.  At  first  they 
had  seemed  to  detract  from  its  privacy,  and  from  the 
front  windows  they  certainly  interfered  with  the  view 
of  the  park  hollows  and  glades,  which  were  so  beautiful 
in  the  varied  lights  in  which  they  were  seen.  But  as  tin 
weeks  had  gone  by  she  had  come  to  take  in  an  added 
sense  of  the  community  of  country  life  from  their 
proximity.  The  villagers,  all  of  whom  she  now  knew 
by  sight,  and  some  of  them  intimately,  came  here  ever}' 
Sunday,  and  seemed  to  come  more  as  friends,  with  the 
church  almost  a  part  of  her  own  home.  And  some  of 
them  would  come  up  sometimes  to  visit  their  quiet 
graves,  to  put  flowers  on  them,  or  just  to  walk  about 
among  the  friends  whom  they  had  known,  now  resting 
here.  The  names  on  many  of  the  stones  were  alike, 
and  families  of  simple  stay-at-home  cottagers  could  be 
traced  back  for  generations.  The  churchyard  was  their 
book  of  honour ;  some  personality  lingered  about  the 
most  far-away  name  that  was  commemorated  in  it. 
Caroline  wished  that  her  own  mother  could  have  been 
buried  here.  It  would  have  been  sweet  to  have  tended 
her  grave,  and  to  have  cherished  the  idea  that  she'  was 
not  cut  off  from  the  warmth  of  their  daily  life.  That 
was  how  the  villagers  must  feel  about  those  who  were 
buried  here.  She  felt  it  herself  about  an  old  man  and 
a  little  child  who  had  died  since  she  had  come  to  live 
at  Abington.  They  were  still  a  part  of  the  great 
family. 

She  went  on  through  the  formal  garden  and  across 
the  grass  to  the  disused  quarry  which  was  the  scene  of 


156  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

her  father's  labours.  It  formed  an  ideal  opportunity 
for  rock-gardening,  and  was  big  enough  to  provide 
amusement  for  some  time  to  come  in  gradual  extension. 
He  was  half-way  up  the  rocky  stair  he  had  made,  very 
busy  with  his  trowel  and  his  watering-pot.  As  she 
came  in  sight  of  him  he  stood  up  to  straighten  his 
back,  and  then  stepped  back  to  consider  the  effect 
he  had  already  made.  This  is  one  of  the  great  pleas- 
ures of  gardening,  and  working  gardeners  should  not 
be  considered  slack  if  they  occasionally  indulge  in  it. 

He  turned  and  saw  her  as  she  crossed  the  grass 
towards  him.  She  was  not  disappointed  in  the  lighten- 
ing of  his  face  or  the  pleasure  that  her  coming  gave 
him.  "  Why,  my  darling !  "  he  said.  "  I  thought 
you'd  be  slumbering  peacefully  for  another  couple  of 
hours.     This  is  jolly!" 

He  gave  her  a  warm  kiss  of  greeting.  She  rubbed 
her  soft  cheek.  "  Its  the  first  time  I've  ever  known  you 
to  dress  without  shaving  first,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  to  have  a  bath  and  a  shave  later  on," 
he  said.  "  This  is  the  best  time  to  garden.  You  don't 
mind  how  grubby  you  get,  and  you've  got  the  whole 
world  to  yourself.  Besides,  I  was  dying  to  get  these 
things  in.  How  do  you  think  it  looks.?  Gives  you  an 
idea  of  what  you're  aiming  at,  doesn't  it.? 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  and  surveyed  his 
handiwork  critically,  with  his  head  on  one  side.  She 
had  again  that  impulse  of  half-maternal  love  towards 
him,  and  put  her  arm  on  his  shoulder  to  give  him  an- 
other kiss.     "  I  think  it's  beautiful,  darling,"  she  said. 


CAROLINE  157 

"  You're  getting  awfully  clever  at  it.  I  don't  think 
you've  given  the  poor  things  enough  water  though. 
You  really  ought  not  to  go  planting  without  me." 

"  Well,  it  is  rather  a  grind  to  keep  on  fetching 
water,"  he  confessed.  "  I  think  we  must  get  it  laid  on 
here.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do  this  morning,  Cara; 
we'll  get  hold  of  Worthing  and  see  if  we  can't  find  a 
spring  or  a  stream  or  something  in  the  park  that  we 
can  divert  into  this  hollow.  I've  been  planning  it  out. 
We  might  get  a  little  waterfall,  and  cut  out  hollows  in 
the  rock  for  pools — have  all  sorts  of  luxuries.  What 
do  you  think  about  it.'*  I  shouldn't  do  it  till  we'd 
worked  it  all  out  together." 

In  her  mood  of  tenderness  she  was  touched  by  his 
wanting  her  approval  and  connivance  in  his  plan.  "  I 
think  it  would  be  lovely,  darling,"  she  said.  "  And 
it  would  give  us  lots  to  do  for  a  long  time  to  come." 

They  discussed  the  fascinating  plan  for  some  time, 
and  then  went  on  with  their  planting,  making  occasional 
journeys  together  for  water,  or  for  more  pots  from  the 
cases.  The  sun  climbed  higher  into  the  sky,  and  the 
freshness  of  the  early  morning  wore  off  towards  a  hot 
still  da}'.  But  it  was  still  early  when  they  had  finished 
all  that  there  was  to  be  done,  and  the  elaborate  prepa- 
rations of  servants  indoors  for  the  washings  and  dress- 
ings and  nibblings  of  uprising  would  not  3'et  have  begun. 

"  I'm  going  to  sit  down  here  and  have  a  quiet  pipe," 
said  Grafton,  seating  himself  on  a  jutting  ledge  of 
rock.  "  Room  for  you  too,  darling.  We've  had  the 
best  of  the  day.     It's  going  to  be  devilish  hot." 


158  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  I  love  the  early  morning,"  said  Caroline.  "  But  if 
we're  going  to  do  this  very  often  I  must  make  arrange- 
ments for  providing  a  little  sustenance.  I'll  get  an 
electric  kettle  and  make  tea  for  us  both.  I  don't  think 
you  ouglit  to  smoke,  dear,  before  you've  had  something 
to  eat." 

"  Oh,  I've  had  some  biscuits.  Boned  'em  out  of  the 
pantry.  I  say,  old  Jarvis  keeps  a  regular  little  store 
of  dainties  there.  There's  some  pate,  and  all  sorts  of 
delicacies.     Have  some." 

He  took  some  biscuits  out  of  his  pocket,  with  tooth- 
some pastes  sandwiched  between  them,  and  Caroline 
devoured  them  readil}',  first  delicately  removing  all 
traces  of  fluff  that  had  attached  itself  to  them.  She 
was  hungry  and  rather  sleepy  now,  but  enjoying  her- 
self exceedingly.  It  was  almost  an  adventure  to  be 
awake  and  alive  at  a  time  when  she  would  usually  be 
sleeping.  And  certainly  they  had  stolen  the  sweetest 
part  of  the  day. 

"  Dad  darling,"  she  said,  rather  abruptly,  after  they 
had  been  silent  for  a  time.  "  You  know  what  I  told  you 
about  Francis.'^  Well,  it's  gone  on  this  week,  and  he 
wants  me  to  give  him  an  answer  now." 

He  came  out  of  his  reverie,  which  had  had  to  do 
with  the  leading  of  water,  and  frowned  a  little.  "  What 
a  tiresome  fellow  he  is ! "  he  said.  "  Why  can't  he 
wait.?" 

"  He  says  he  wouldn't  mind  waiting  if  there  was 
anything  to  wait  for.  But  he's  got  plenty  of  money, 
he  says,  to  give  me  everything  I  ought  to  have,  and  he 


CAROLINE  159 

wants  me.  What  he  says  is  that  he  wants  me 
damnably." 

"  Oh,  it's  got  to  that,  has  it?  He  hasn't  wanted  you 
so  damnably  up  till  now.  He's  been  hanging  about  you 
for  years." 

"  He  says  he  didn't  know  how  much  he  loved  me  be- 
fore," she  said,  half-unwillingly.  "  He  found  it  out 
when  he  saw  me  here.  I'm  much  nicer  in  the  country 
than  I  was  in  London." 

"  I  didn't  see  much  difference.  You've  always  been 
much  the  same  to  him." 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  mean  that.  I'm  a  different  person 
in  the  country.  In  London  I'm  one  of  the  crowd ;  here 
I'm  myself.  Well,  I  feel  that,  you  know.  I  am  dif- 
ferent. He  thinks  I'm  much  nicer.  Do  you  think  I'm 
much  nicer,  Dad.''  " 

He  put  his  hand  caressingly  on  her  neck.  "  You're 
always  just  what  I  want  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  not  sure 
I  don't  want  you  damnably  too.  I  should  be  lost  here 
without  you,  especially  with  B  so  much  away." 

"  Would  you,  darling.'*  Well  then,  that  settles  it. 
I  don't  want  to  be  married  yet.  I  want  to  stay  here 
with  you." 

As  she  was  dressing,  later  on,  she  wondered  exactly 
what  it  was  that  had  made  her  take  this  sudden  deci- 
sion, and  feel  a  sense  of  freedom  and  lightness  in  having 
taken  it.  She  had  not  intended  to  refuse  Francis 
definitely  when  she  had  gone  out  to  her  father  a  couple 
of  hours  before ;  but  now  she  was  going  to  do  so.  She 
liked  him  as  much  as  ever — or  thought  she  did.     But 


160  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

his  importunities  had  troubled  her  a  little  during  her 
week  in  London.  They  had  never  been  such  as  to  have 
caused  her  to  reject  advances  for  which  she  was  not 
yet  ready.  He  had  made  no  claims  upon  her,  but  only 
asked  for  the  right  to  make  claims.  Other  young  men 
from  time  to  time  in  her  two  3'cars'  experience  had 
not  been  so  careful  in  their  treatment  of  her;  that  was 
why  she  liked  Francis  better  than  any  of  those  who 
had  shown  their  admiration  of  her.  And  yet  he  had 
troubled  her,  with  his  quiet  direct  speech  and  his  obvious 
longing  for  her,  although  she  liked  him  so  much,  and 
had  thought  that  in  time  she  might  give  him  what  he 
wanted.  Yes,  she  had  thought  she  liked  him  well  enough 
for  that.  She  knew  him ;  he  was  nice  all  through ;  they 
had  much  in  common ;  they  would  never  quarrel ;  he 
would  never  let  her  down.  All  that  she  had  intended  to 
ask  her  father  was  whether  it  was  fair  to  Francis  to 
keep  him  waiting,  say  for  another  year ;  or  whether, 
if  she  did  that,  it  was  to  be  the  engagement  or  the 
marriage  that  was  to  be  thus  postponed.  But  the 
question  had  been  answered  without  having  been  asked. 
She  did  not  want  to  marry  him  now,  and  she  did  not 
want  to  look  forward  to  a  future  in  which  she  might 
want  to  marry  him.  There  was  still  the  idea  in  her 
mind  that  if  he  asked  her  again,  by  and  by,  she  might 
accept  him ;  but  for  the  present  all  she  wanted  was  to 
be  free,  and  not  to  have  it  hanging  over  her.  So  she 
would  refuse  him,  definitely ;  what  should  happen  in 
the  future  could  be  left  to  itself. 

Oh,  how  nice  it  was  to  live  this  quiet  happy  country 


CAROLINE  161 

life,  and  to  know  that  it  would  go  on,  at  least  as  far 
as  she  cared  to  look  ahead !  She  had  the  companion- 
ship in  it  that  she  liked  best  in  the  world ;  she  had  every- 
thing to  make  her  happy.  And  she  was  completely 
happy  as  she  dressed  herself,  more  carefully  than  be- 
fore, though  a  trifle  languid  from  the  early  beginning 
she  had  made  of  the  day. 

A  message  was  sent  over  to  the  Estate  Office  to  ask 
Worthing  if  he  could  come  up  as  soon  as  possible  in 
the  morning.  He  came  up  at  about  half-past  ten, 
and  brought  with  him  a  young  man  who  had  arrived  the 
day  before  to  study  land  agency  with  him  as  his  pupil. 

"  Maurice  Bradby,"  he  introduced  him  all  round. 
"  He's  going  to  live  with  me  for  a  bit  if  we  find  we  get 
on  well  together,  and  learn  all  I  can  teach  him.  I 
thought  I'd  bring  him  up  and  introduce  him.  If  I  die 
suddenly  in  the  night — as  long  as  I  don't  do  it  before 
he's  learnt  his  job — he'd  be  a  useful  man  to  take  my 
place." 

Bradby  was  a  quiet-mannered  rather  shy  young  man 
of  about  five  and  twenty.  He  was  tall  and  somewhat 
loose-limbed,  but  with  a  look  of  activity  about  him. 
He  had  a  lot  of  dark  hair,  not  very  carefully  brushed, 
and  was  dressed  in  Norfolk  jacket  and  knickerbockers, 
conspicuous  neither  in  style  nor  pattern.  He  fell  to 
Barbara's  lot  to  entertain,  as  Caroline  was  too  in- 
terested in  the  quest  upon  which  they  set  across  the 
park  to  leave  the  company  of  her  father  and  Worthing. 
Barbara  found  him  nice,  but  uninteresting.  She  had 
to  support  most  of  the  conversation  herself,  and  had 


162  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

almost  exhausted  her  topics  before  they  came  to  the 
stream  in  the  woods  which  Worthing  thought  might  be 
diverted  into  the  rock-garden.  Thereafter  the  young 
man  fell  into  the  background,  but  showed  himself  use- 
ful on  the  return  journey  in  helping  to  gauge  the  slopes 
down  which  the  water  could  best  be  led,  and  made  one 
suggestion,  rather  diffidently,  which  Worthing  accepted 
in  preference  to  his  own.  Grafton  said  a  few  friendly 
words  to  him,  and  asked  him  to  come  and  play  lawn 
tennis  in  the  afternoon,  which  invitation  he  gratefully 
but  diffidently  accepted. 

There  were  two  tennis  courts  at  the  Abbey,  but 
there  were  a  good  many  people  to  play  on  them  that 
afternoon.  Bradby  played  well,  but  when  his  turn 
came  to  sit  out  he  hardly  seemed  to  belong  to  the  party, 
which  included  the  Pemberton  girls,  and  others  who  all 
knew  one  another,  and  showed  it.  He  sat  silent  and 
awkward,  until  Caroline  said  to  Barbara :  "  Do  go  and 
talk  to  Mr.  Bradby ;  nobody's  taking  any  trouble  about 
him,  and  he's  too  shy  to  join  in  with  the  rest." 

"  Darling,  I  think  you  might  take  him  on  a  bit  your- 
self," expostulated  Barbara.  "  I  had  him  this  morn- 
ing, and  he's  frightfully  dull.     But  I  will  if  you  like." 

Caroline,  disarmed  by  this  amiability,  *  took  him  on  ' 
herself,  and  finding  him  interested  in  flowers  took  him 
to  see  some.  When  she  next  spoke  to  Barbara  she  said  : 
*'  I  don't  know  why  you  say  Mr.  Bradby  is  dull.  He's 
as  keen  as  anything  about  gardening,  and  knows  a  lot 
too." 

"  Oh,  of  course  if  he  likes  gardening!  "  said  Barbara. 


CAROLINE  163 

"  Well,  he'll  be  a  nice  little  friend  for  you,  darling. 
I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  see  a  good  lot  of  him  if  he's 
going  to  live  with  Uncle  Jimmy,  and  I  dare  say  we  can 
make  him  useful  when  Bunting  comes  home.  I  think 
he's  the  sort  who  likes  to  make  himself  useful.  Other- 
wise, I  think  he's  rather  a  bore." 

That  being  Barbara's  opinion,  it  fell  to  Caroline's 
lot  to  entertain  the  young  man  again  when  he  came  to 
dine,  with  Worthing.  He  was  too  diffident  to  join  in 
the  general  conversation,  and  was  indeed  somewhat  of 
a  wet-blanket  on  the  cheerful  talkative  company.  Miss 
Waterhouse  exerted  herself  to  talk  to  him  during  din- 
ner, but  stayed  indoors  afterwards  when  the  rest  of 
them  went  out  into  the  garden.  Caroline  was  too  kind- 
natured  and  sweet-tempered  to  feel  annoyance  at  hav- 
ing to  devote  herself  to  him,  instead  of  joining  in  a 
general  conversation,  but  she  did  think  that  if  he  were 
to  be  constantly  at  the  house,  as  he  could  hardly  help 
being,  she  had  better  encourage  him  to  make  himself 
more  at  home  in  their  company.  So  she  tried  to  draw 
him  out  about  himself  and  had  her  reward ;  for  he  told 
her  all  his  life's  history,  and  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
her  like  him,  and  to  hope  that  he  would  be  a  welcome 
addition  to  their  more  intimate  circle,  when  he  suc- 
ceeded in  throwing  off  his  shyness. 

His  story  was  simple  enough.  He  was  the  youngest 
son  of  a  clergyman,  who  had  three  other  sons  and  four 
daughters.  They  had  been  brouglit  up  in  the  country, 
but  when  Maurice  was  fourteen  his  father  had  been 
given  a  living  in  a  large  Midland  town.    His  three  elder 


164  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

brothers  had  obtained  scholarships  at  good  schools  and 
afterwards  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  and  were  doing 
well,  one  in  the  Woods  and  Forests  Department,  one 
as  a  schoolmaster,  and  one  in  journalism.  He  was 
the  dunce  of  the  family,  he  told  Caroline,  and  after 
having  been  educated  at  the  local  Grammar  School, 
he  had  been  given  a  clerkship,  at  the  age  of  eighteen, 
in  a  local  bank.  He  had  always  hated  it.  He  had 
wanted  to  emigrate  and  work  with  his  hands,  on  the 
land,  but  his  mother  had  dissuaded  him.  He  was  the 
only  son  at  home,  and  two  of  the  daughters  had  also 
gone  out  into  the  world.  Finally  a  legacy  had  fallen  to 
his  father,  which  had  enabled  him  to  give  his  youngest 
son  a  new  start  in  life.  He  was  to  learn  land  agency 
for  a  year.  If  he  succeeded  in  making  a  living  out  of 
it  after  that  time,  he  would  stay  in  England,  Other- 
wise, he  was  to  be  allowed  his  own  way  at  last,  and  go 
out  to  Canada  or  Australia. 

That  was  all.  But  he  was  at  the  very  beginning  of 
his  new  life  now,  and  all  ablaze,  under  his  crust  of  shy- 
ness, with  the  joy  of  it.  Caroline  felt  a  most  friendly 
sympathy  with  him.  "  I'm  sure  you  will  get  on  well 
if  you  are  as  keen  as  that,"  she  said  kindly.  "  I  don't 
wonder  at  your  hating  being  tied  to  an  office  if  you 
love  the  country  so.  I  love  it  too,  and  everything  that 
goes  on  in  it.  And  of  all  places  in  the  world  I  love 
Abington.  I  think  you're  very  lucky  to  have  found 
Mr.  Worthing  to  learn  from,  here." 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF 

The  Vicar  was  taking  tea  at  Surley  Rectory,  after 
the  afternoon  service.  Old  Mr.  Cooper,  the  Rector  of 
Surley,  was  over  eighty,  and  getting  infirm.  His 
daughters  took  all  the  responsibility  for  *  running  the 
parish '  off  his  hands,  but  ecclesiastical  law  forbade 
their  taking  the  services  in  church,  which  otherwise 
they  would  have  been  quite  willing  to  do,  and  he  had 
to  call  in  help  from  among  his  colleagues  for  this  pur- 
pose, when  he  was  laid  up.  There  was  no  one  more 
ready  to  help  him  than  the  Vicar  of  Abington.  His 
own  service  was  in  the  evening,  and  he  was  always  will- 
ing to  take  that  at  Surley  in  the  afternoon. 

The  living  of  Surley  was  a  '  plum,'  in  the  gift  of  the 
Bishop  of  the  diocese.  It  was  worth,  *  gross,'  over  a 
thousand  a  year,  and  although  its  emoluments  had 
shrunk  to  a  considerably  lower  figure,  '  net,'  its  rector 
was  still  to  be  envied  as  being  in  possession  of  a  good 
thing.  There  was  a  large  house  and  an  ample  acreage 
of  glebe,  all  very  pleasantly  situated,  so  that  Surley 
Rectory  had  the  appearance  and  all  the  appanages  of 
a  respectable-sized  squire's  house,  and  was  only  less  in 
importance  in  the  parish  than  Surley  Park,  which  it 
somewhat  resembled,  though  on  a  smaller  scale.     Mr. 

165 


166  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Cooper  had  held  it  for  close  upon  forty  years,  and  had 
done  very  well  out  of  it.  His  daughters  would  be  well 
provided  for,  and  if  at  any  time  he  chose  to  retire  he 
would  have  ample  means,  with  the  pension  he  would 
get  from  his  successor,  to  end  his  days  in  the  same  sort 
of  comfort  as  that  in  which  he  had  lived  there  for  so 
long.  But  he  had  become  a  little  '  near '  in  his  old 
age.  He  would  not  retire,  although  he  was  gradually 
getting  past  what  little  work  he  had  to  do  himself,  and 
he  would  not  keep  a  curate.  What  he  ardently  wished 
was  that  his  son,  who  had  come  to  him  late  in  life, 
should  succeed  him  as  Rector  of  Surley.  Denis  would 
be  ready  to  be  ordained  in  the  following  Advent,  and 
would  come  to  him  as  curate.  If  the  old  man  managed 
to  hang  on  for  a  few  years  longer  it  was  his  hope  that 
Denis  would  so  have  established  himself  as  the  right 
man  to  carry  on  his  work  that  he  would  be  presented  to 
the  living.  It  was  a  fond  hope,  little  likely  of  realisa- 
tion. The  Vicar  of  Abington  was  accustomed  to  throw 
scorn  upon  it  when  discussing  the  old  man's  ambitions 
with  his  wife.  "  If  it  were  a  question  of  private  patron- 
age," he  said  to  her  once  after  returning  from  Surley, 
"  I  don't  say  that  it  might  not  happen.  But  there 
would  be  an  outcry  if  the  Bishop  were  to  give  one  of 
the  best  livings  in  his  diocese  to  a  young  man  who  had 
done  nothing  to  deserve  it.  Quite  justifiably  too. 
Livings  like  Surley  ought  to  be  given  to  incumbents  in 
the  diocese,  who  have  borne  the  burden  and  heat  of  the 
day  in  the  poorer  livings.  I'm  quite  sure  the  Bishop 
thinks  the  same.     I  was  telling  him  the  other  day  how 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     167 

difficult  it  would  be  for  a  man  to  live  here,  and  do  his 
work  as  it  ought  to  be  done,  unless  he  had  private 
means  behind  him;  and  he  said  that  men  who  took 
such  livings  ought  to  be  rewarded.  It's  true  that  there 
are  other  livings  in  the  diocese  even  poorer  than  this, 
but  I  was  going  through  them  the  other  day  and  I 
don't  think  there's  a  man  holds  any  of  them  who  would 
be  suitable  for  Surle}'.  There's  a  position  to  keep  up 
there,  and  it  could  not  be  done,  any  more  than  this 
can,  without  private  means.  I  don't  suppose  Mr. 
Cooper  will  last  much  longer.  I  fancy  he's  going  a 
little  soft  in  the  head  already.  This  idea  that  there's 
any  chance  of  Denis  succeeding  him  seems  to  indicate 
it." 

The  Vicar,  however,  did  nothing  to  discourage  the 
old  man's  hopes  when  he  so  kindly  went  over  to  take 
his  duty  for  him.  Nor  did  he  even  throw  cold  water 
upon  those  which  the  Misses  Cooper  shared  with  their 
father  on  their  brother's  behalf,  but  encouraged  them 
to  talk  about  the  future,  and  showed  nothing  but  sym- 
pathy with  them  in  their  wishes. 

They  talked  about  it  now  over  the  tea-table,  in  the 
large  comfortably  furnished  drawing-room,  which  was 
so  much  better  than  the  drawing-room  at  Abington 
Vicarage,  but  would  look  even  better  than  it  did  now 
if  it  had  the  Abington  Vicarage  furniture  in  it,  and  a 
little  money  spent  to  increase  it.  Perhaps  the  carpet, 
which  was  handsome,  though  somewhat  faded,  and  the 
curtains,  which  matched  it  well,  might  be  taken  over  at 
a  valuation  if  it  should  so  happen  that 


168  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  I  think  dear  father  is  a  little  easier,"  Rhoda  was 
saying,  as  she  poured  tea  out  of  an  old  silver  tea-pot 
into  cups  that  had  belonged  to  her  grandmother.  "  We 
shan't  get  him  up  yet  awhile  though,  or  let  him  out  till 
the  weather  turns  fine  again.  Denis  will  be  home  next 
Sunday,  and  he  can  take  the  services  now,  with  his  lay- 
reader's  certificate." 

"  But  I  shall  be  delighted  to  come  over  in  the  after- 
noons until  your  father  is  better,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"  It  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  help  an  old 
friend." 

"  I'm  sure  you've  been  most  kind,  Mr.  Mercer,"  said 
Ethel.  "  Later  on,  when  Denis  has  to  go  back  for  his 
last  term,  we  may  have  to  call  on  you  again.  But  it 
won't  be  for  long  now.  When  Denis  is  once  ordained 
and  settled  down  here  we  shall  breathe  again." 

"  I  believe  father  will  be  better  altogether  when  that 
happens,"  said  Rhoda.  "  He  can't  get  it  out  of  his 
head  that  he  may  die  before  Denis  is  ready  to  take  his 
place.  I  don't  think  there's  any  danger  of  it,  but 
naturally,  it  depresses  him.  I'm  afraid,  if  anything 
so  dreadful  were  to  happen,  one  could  hardly  expect 
the  Bishop  to  keep  the  living  open  for  Denis  until  he's 
priested.    Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Mercer?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  let  the  old  gentleman  think  it  couldn*t 
happen,  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  Vicar. 

"  Oh,  no ;  we  do  all  we  can  to  keep  up  his  hopes.  If 
only  we  could  get  the  Bishop  to  make  him  some  sort  of 
a  promise !  " 

"  He  won't  do  that,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  Vicar. 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF      169 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  not.  Did  you  know,  Mr.  Mercer, 
that  Mrs.  Carruthers  was  the  Bishop's  niece?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  know  that.    Are  you  sure.''  " 

"  Yes ;  he  told  us  so  himself  when  Ethel  and  I  went 
to  call  at  the  Palace.  It  was  a  little  awkward  for  us, 
for,  of  course,  they  asked  about  her.  But  we  were  able 
to  say  that  she  had  been  abroad  for  some  months, 
which,  of  course,  they  knew.  So  the  subject  passed  off. 
But  they  are  evidently  rather  fond  of  her,  and  when 
she  comes  back  I  think  it  is  quite  likely  that  they  will 
come  to  stay  with  her." 

This  news  wanted  digesting.  The  Bishop  of  Med- 
chester  had  only  recently  been  appointed,  and  it  would 
be  rather  an  advantage  to  the  neighbouring  clergy  for 
him  to  come  amongst  them  more  often  than  he  would 
otherwise  have  done.  But  there  were  certain  difficulties 
to  be  anticipated,  since  the  lady  who  would  attract  him 
there  had  broken  off  relations  with  the  clergy  of  her 
own  parish,  and  the  next. 

It  seemed  already,  however,  to  have  been  digested  by 
the  Misses  Cooper.  "  We  shall  make  friends  with  her 
again  when  she  comes  back,"  said  Rhoda  calmly.  "  We 
did  make  a  mistake  on  the  subject  we  quarrelled  about, 
and  there's  no  good  saying  we  didn't.  She  behaved  in 
a  very  unladylike  way  about  it — I  must  say  that ;  but 
if  we  can  forgive  it,  and  let  bygones  be  bygones,  I  sup- 
pose she  can.  If  she  wished,  she  could  probably  do 
something  to  influence  the  Bishop  about  Denis.  Denis 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  cause  of  dispute,  and  used 
to  be  asked  to  the  Park  a  good  deal  before  we  left  off 


170  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

going  there  altogether.  She  always  liked  him,  and  in 
fact  wanted  to  keep  friends  with  him  after  she  had 
been  so  rude  to  us;  just  as  she  did  with  father.  That, 
of  course,  we  couldn't  have;  but  if  we  are  all  ready  to 
make  friends  together  again  the  objection  will  be  re- 
moved. I  think  it  is  likely  that  her  relationship  to  the 
Bishop  will  count  for  a  good  deal  when  it  becomes  neces- 
sary to  appoint  somebody  to  succeed  dear  father." 

It  did,  indeed,  seem  likely.  The  Bishop,  who  was 
well  connected,  and  thought  to  be  a  trifle  worldly,  had 
already,  during  his  short  term  of  office,  instituted  one 
incumbent  on  the  recommendation  of  the  Squire  of  the 
parish.  The  living  was  not  a  particularly  good  one, 
and  the  man  was  suitable ;  but  there  was  the  precedent. 
The  betting,  if  there  had  been  such  a  thing,  on  young 
Cooper's  succeeding  his  father,  would  have  gone  up 
several  points,  on  the  relationship  of  Mrs.  Carruthers 
to  the  Bishop  becoming  known. 

"  Personall}',"  said  the  Vicar,  "  I  was  always  in- 
clined to  like  Mrs.  Carruthers.  I  confess  I  was  dis- 
turbed— even  offended — when  she  refused  to  see  me  after 
her  husband's  death.  But  one  can  make  excuses  for  a 
woman  at  such  a  time.     One  must  not  bear  malice." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Let's  all  forgive  and  for- 
get. She  is  coming  back  in  September,  I  believe.  I 
should  think  you  might  see  a  good  deal  of  her  over  at 
Abington,  Mr.  Mercer.  She  is  bound  to  make  friends 
with  the  Graf  tons.  They're  just  her  sort.  Two  very 
lively  houses  we  have  in  our  parishes,  haven't  we.''  Al- 
ways somebody  coming  and  going!     I  can't  say  I  shall 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     171 

be  sorry  to  be  friends  with  Mrs.  Carruthers  again.  It 
does  cheer  one  up  to  see  people  from  outside  occa- 
sionally." 

"  Personally,  I  don't  much  care  for  this  modern 
habit  of  week-end  visiting  in  country  houses,"  said 
Ethel.  "  It  means  that  people  are  taken  up  with  guests 
from  outside  and  don't  see  so  much  of  their  neighbours. 
In  old  Mr.  Carruthers's  time,  they  had  their  parties, 
for  shooting  and  all  that,  but  there  Avere  often  people 
who  stayed  for  a  week  or  two,  and  one  got  to  know 
them.  And,  of  course,  when  the  family  was  here  alone, 
there  was  much  more  coming  and  going  between  our  two 
houses.     It  was  much  more  friendly." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  And  the 
clergyman  of  the  parish  ought  to  be  the  chief  friend 
of  his  squire,  if  his  squire  is  of  the  right  sort.  Un- 
fortunately, nowadays,  he  so  often  isn't." 

"  But  you  haven't  much  to  complain  about,  have  you, 
Mr.  Mercer?"  enquired  Rhoda.  "I  have  always 
thought  you  got  on  so  extremely  well  with  the  Graf- 
tons." 

"  We  have  often  envied  you  having  such  a  nice  house 
to  run  in  and  out  of,"  said  Ethel,  "  when  you  told  us 
how  welcome  they  made  you.  Especially  with  those 
pretty  girls  there,"  she  added  archly. 

"  We've  thought  sometimes  that  you  were  rather  in- 
clined to  forsake  old  friends  for  their  sake,"  said  Rhoda. 

The  Vicar  was  dragged  by  two  opposing  forces.  On 
the  one  hand  he  was  unwilling  to  destroy  the  impres- 
sion that  he  was  hand  in  glove  with  the  family  of  his 


172  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

squire;  on  the  other  hand  the  wounds  of  vanity  needed 
consolation.  But  these  were  old  friends  and  would  no 
doubt  understand,  and  sympathise. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth  they  haven't  turned  out  quite 
as  well  as  I  hoped  they  might  at  the  beginning,"  he 
said.  "  There  are  a  good  many  things  I  don't  like 
about  them,  although  in  others  I  am  perhaps,  as  you 
say,  fortunate." 

Rhoda  and  Ethel  pricked  up  their  ears.  This  was 
as  breath  to  their  nostrils. 

"  Well,  now  you've  said  it,"  said  Rhoda,  "  I'll  con- 
fess that  we  have  sometimes  wondered  how  long  your 
infatu — your  liking  for  the  Graftons  would  last. 
They're  not  at  all  the  sort  of  people  we  should  care  to 
have  living  next  door  to  us." 

"  Far  from  it,"  said  Ethel.  "  But,  of  course,  we 
couldn't  say  anything  as  long  as  they  seemed  to  be  so 
important  to  you" 

"  What  is  there  that  you  particularly  object  to  in 
them?  "  asked  the  Vicar  in  some  surprise.  "  I  thought 
you  did  like  them  when  you  went  over  there  at  first." 

"  At  first,  yes,"  said  Rhoda ;  "  except  that  youngest 
one,  Barbara.  She  pretended  to  be  very  polite,  but 
she  seemed  to  be  taking  one  off  all  the  time." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  the  Vicar  uneasily. 
"  I've  sometimes  almost  thought  the  same  myself.  But 
I  think  it's  only  her  manner.  Personally  I  prefer  her 
to  the  other  two.     She  isn't  so  pretty,  but " 

"  I  don't  deny  Caroline  and  Beatrix's  prettiness," 
said  Rhoda.     "  Some  girls  might  say  they  couldn't  see 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     173 

it,  but  thank  goodness  I'm  not  a  cat.  Still,  good  looks, 
to  please  me,  must  have  something  behind  them,  or  I've 
no  use  for  them." 

"  They're  ill-natured — ill-natured  and  conceited," 
said  Ethel.  "  That's  what  they  are,  and  that's  what 
spoils  them.    And  the  way  they  go  on  with  their  father ! 

*  Darling  '  and  '  dearest '  and  hanging  round  him  all  the 
time !  It's  all  show-off.  They  don't  act  in  that  way  to 
others." 

"  I  dare  say  Mr.  Mercer  wishes  they  did,"  said 
Rhoda,  who  was  not  altogether  without  humour,  and 
also  prided  herself  on  her  directness  of  speech. 

"  Indeed  not !  "  said  the  Vicar  indignantly.  "  I 
quite  agree  with  Miss  Ethel.  I  dislike  all  that  petting 
and  kissing  in  company." 

"  I  only  meant  that  they  are  not  so  sweet  as  all  that 
inside,"  said  Ethel.  "  I'm  sure  Rhoda  and  I  did  our 
best  to  make  friends  with  them.  They  are  younger  than 
we  are,  of  course,  and  we  thought  they  might  be  glad 
to  be  taken  notice  of  and  helped  to  employ  and  in- 
terest themselves.  But  not  at  all.  Oh,  no.  They  came 
over  here  once,  and  nothing  was  good  enough  for  them. 
They  wouldn't  do  this,  and  they  didn't  care  about  doing 
that,  and  hadn't  time  to  do  the  other.     At  last  I  said, 

*  Whatever  do  you  do  with  yourselves  then,  all  day 
long?  Surely,'  I  said,  '  you  take  some  interest  in 
your  fellow-creatures ! ' — we'd  wanted  them  to  do  the 
same  sort  of  thing  at  Abington  as  we  do  here,  and  of- 
fered to  bicycle  over  there  as  often  as  they  liked  to 
help  and  advise  them.    Caroline  looked  at  me,  and  said 


174  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

in  a  high  and  mighty  sort  of  wa}",  '  Yes  we  do ;  but  we 
like  making  friends  with  them  by  degrees.'  Well  now, 
I  call  that  simply  shirking.  If  we  had  tried  to  run 
this  parish  on  those  lines — well,  it  wouldn't  be  the  parish 
it  is;  that's  all  I  can  say." 

"  They  are  of  very  little  use  in  the  parish,"  said  the 
Vicar.  "  I  tried  to  get  them  interested  when  they  first 
came,  and  asked  them  to  come  about  with  me  and  see 
things  for  themselves,  but  I've  long  since  given  up  all 
idea  of  that.  And  none  of  them  will  teach  in  the  Sun- 
day-school, where  we  really  want  teachers." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  do,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Until  Mol- 
lie  Walter  came  I  suppose  you  had  hardly  anybody. 
How  do  they  get  on  with  Mollie  Walter,  by  the  by? 
Or  don^t  they  get  on.  She'd  hardly  be  good  enough  for 
them,  I  suppose." 

"  Far  from  that,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  they  are  spoiling 
Mollie  completely.  She  used  to  be  such  a  nice  simple 
modest  girl ;  well,  you  often  said  yourselves  that  you 
would  like  to  have  a  girl  like  that  to  help  you  in  the 
parish." 

"  Yes,  we  did,"  said  Ethel.  "  And  she  used  to  be  so 
pleased  to  come  over  here  and  to  be  told  how  to  do 
things.  Now  I  think  of  it  she  hardly  ever  does  come 
over  now.  So  that's  the  reason,  is  it?  Taken  up  by  the 
Graftons  and  had  her  head  turned.  Well,  all  I  can  say 
is  that  when  she  does  deign  to  come  over  here  again, 
or  we  go  and  see  her,  we  shan't  stand  any  nonsense  of 
that  sort.  If  she  wants  a  talking  to  she  can  get  it 
here." 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     175 

"  I  wish  you  would  talk  to  her,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"  I've  tried  to  do  so,  seeing  her  going  wrong,  and  think- 
ing it  my  duty ;  but  she  simply  won't  listen  to  me  now. 
They've  entirely  altered  her,  and  I  whom  she  used  to 
look  up  to  almost  as  a  father  am  nothing  any  more, 
beside  them." 

"  That's  too  bad,"  said  Rhoda.  "  And  you  used  to 
make  such  a  pet  of  her." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did  that,"  said  the 
Vicar.  "  Of  course  I  was  fond  of  the  child,  and  tried 
to  bring  her  out ;  but  I  was  training  her  all  the  time, 
to  make  a  good  useful  woman  of  her.  Her  mother  was 
grateful  to  me  for  it,  I  know,  and  she  herself  has  often 
told  me  what  a  different  life  it  was  for  her  from  the 
one  she  had  been  living,  and  how  happy  she  was  at 
Abington  in  their  little  cottage,  and  having  us  as  their 
friends.  Well  she  might  be  too!  We've  done  every- 
thing for  that  girl,  and  this  is  the  return.  I  haven't 
yet  told  you  what  disturbs  me  so  much.  You  know 
how  I  dislike  those  noisy  rackety  Pembertons." 

"  Why  I  thought  you  were  bosom  friends  with  them 
again,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Mr.  Brill  came  over  the  other 
day — Father  Brill  I  refuse  to  call  him — and  said  he 
had  met  you  and  Mrs.  Mercer  dining  there." 

"  Oh,  one  must  dine  with  one's  neighbours  occa- 
sionally," said  the  Vicar,  "  unless  one  wants  to  cut  one's 
self  off  from  them  entirely.  Besides,  I  thought  I'd  done 
them  an  injustice.  Mrs.  Pemberton  had  done  me  the 
honour  to  consult  me  about  certain  good  works  that 
she  was  engaged  in,  and  I  did  what  I  could,  naturally. 


176  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

to  be  helpful  and  to  interest  myself.  Why  she  did  it 
I  don't  know,  considering  that  when  I  took  the  trouble 
to  bicycle  over  there  last  I  was  informed  that  she  was 
not  at  home,  although,  if  you'll  believe  me,  there  was 
a  large  party  there,  the  Graftons  and  Mollie  among 
them,  playing  tennis." 

"  Mollie !  I  didn't  know  she  knew  the  Pember- 
tons !  She  is  getting  on !  No  wonder  her  head's 
turned !  " 

"  What  I  wanted  to  tell  you  was  that  young  Pem- 
berton  met  her  at  the  Abbey  some  time  ago,  when  the 
Graftons  first  came,  and  took  a  fancy  to  her.  It  was 
he  who  got  her  asked  over  to  Grays,  and  she  actually 
went  there  before  Mrs.  Pemberton  had  called  on  Mrs. 
Walter.  Now  I  ask  you,  is  that  the  proper  way  for 
a  girl  to  behave .''  " 

"  Well,  you  haven't  told  us  how  she  does  behave  yet," 
said  Rhoda.  "  Has  she  taken  a  fancy  to  young  Pem- 
berton?   It  would  be  a  splendid  match  for  her." 

The  Vicar  made  an  exclamation  of  impatience.  "  Is 
it  likely,  do  you  think,  that  he  has  anything  of  that 
sort  in  his  head?  "  he  asked.  "  He's  just  amusing  him- 
self with  a  pretty  girl,  and  thinks  he  can  do  what  he 
likes  with  her,  because  she's  beneath  him  in  station. 
It  makes  my  blood  boil.  And  there's  the  girl  lending 
herself  to  it — in  all  innocence,  of  course ;  I  know  that — 
and  nobody  to  give  her  a  word  of  warning." 

"  Haven't  you  given  her  a  word  of  warning?  "  asked 
Ethel. 

"  I  tried  to  do  so.     But  she  misunderstood  me.     I've 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     177 

said  that  it's  all  innocence  on  her  part.  And  it's  diffi- 
cult for  a  man  to  advise  in  these  matters." 

"  Couldn't  Mrs.  Mercer.?  " 

"  My  wife  doesn't  see  quite  eye  to  eye  with  me  in 
this,  unfortunately.  She  thinks  I  made  a  mistake  in 
mentioning  the  matter  to  Mollie  at  all.  Perhaps  it 
would  have  been  better  if  I'd  left  it  to  her.  But  she 
couldn't  do  anything  now." 

"Couldn't  you  say  anything  to  Mrs.  Walter.''" 

"  I  did  that.  She  was  there  when  I  talked  to  Mollie. 
I'm  sorry  to  say  that  she  took  offence.  I  ought  really 
to  have  talked  to  them  separately.  They  listened  to 
what  I  had  to  say  at  first,  and  seemed  quite  to  realise 
that  a  mistake  had  been  made  in  Mollie  going  over  to 
Grays  in  that  way  before  Mrs.  Pemberton  had  called 
on  Mrs.  Walter.  It  was  even  doubtful  at  that  time 
whether  she  would  call  on  her,  although  she  did  so 
afterwards.  But  when  I  mentioned  young  Pemberton, 
they  simply  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Mollie  went  out 
of  the  room  with  her  head  in  the  air,  and  Mrs.  Walter 
took  the  line  that  I  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  the 
girl  at  all  in  such  matters  as  that.  Why,  those  are 
the  very  matters  that  a  man  of  the  world,  as  I  suppose 
one  can  be  as  well  as  being  a  Christian,  ought  to  counsel 
a  girl  about,  if  he's  on  such  terms  with  her  as  to  stand 
for  father  or  brother,  as  I  have  been  with  MolHe.  Don't 
you  think  I'm  right.''  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Rhoda.  "  If  she'd  just 
taken  it  naturally,  and  hadn't  been  thinking  of  any 
harm,  it  would  be  likely  to  offend  her  to  have  it  put 


178  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

to  her  In  that  way ;  especially  if  she  was  inclined  to  like 
him  and  didn't  know  it  yet." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  a  mistake,"  the  Vicar  admitted 
again.  "  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  talked  to  Mrs. 
Walter  first.  But  they  had  both  been  so  amenable  in 
the  way  they  had  taken  advice  from  me  generally,  in 
things  that  they  couldn't  be  expected  to  know  about 
themselves,  and  so  grateful  for  my  friendship  and  in- 
terest in  them,  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  not  to 
say  exactly  what  I  thought.  One  lives  and  learns. 
There's  very  little  real  gratitude  in  the  world.  Mollie 
has  got  thoroughly  in  with  the  Graftons  now,  and  all 
/'ve  done  for  her  goes  for  nothing,  or  very  little.  And 
even  Mrs.  Walter  has  laid  herself  out  to  flatter  and 
please  them,  in  a  way  I  didn't  think  it  was  in  her  to  do. 
She  is  always  running  after  Miss  Waterhouse,  and 
asking  her  to  the  Cottage.  They  both  pretend  that 
nothing  is  altered — she  and  Mollie — but  it's  plain 
enough  that  now  they  think  themselves  on  a  level  with 
the  Graftons — well,  they  have  got  where  they  want  to 
be  and  can  kick  down  the  ladder  that  led  them  there. 
That's  about  what  it  comes  to,  and  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing rather  sore  about  it.  Well,  I've  unburdened  my- 
self to  you,  and  it's  done  me  good.  Of  course  you'll 
keep  what  I  say  to  yourselves." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Rhoda.  "  Confidences  with  us 
are  sacred.  Then  Mollie  still  goes  over  to  Grays  .f*  Her 
mother  lets  her.?  " 

"  She  goes  over  with  the  Graftons.  I  don't  fancy 
she  has  been  by  herself ;  but  I  never  ask.     I  don't  men- 


THE  VICAR  UNBURDENS  HIMSELF     179 

tion  the  subject  at  all,  and  naturally  they  would  be 
ashamed  of  bringing  it  up  themselves  before  mc." 
"  The  Grafton  girls  back  her  up,  of  course !  " 
"  I'm  afraid  they  do.  And  I  hardly  like  to  say  it, 
or  even  to  think  it,  but  Mollie  must  have  given  them 
quite  a  wrong  impression  of  what  was  said  after  she 
had  dined  at  Grays  with  them.  There  is  a  difference 
in  their  behaviour  towards  me,  and  I  can  hardly  help 
putting  it  down  to  that.  I  used  to  get  such  a  warm 
welcome  at  the  Abbey,  whenever  I  liked  to  go  there.  I 
could  always  drop  in  for  a  cup  of  tea,  or  at  any  time  of 
the  day,  and  know  that  they  were  pleased  to  see  me. 
When  their  father  was  up  in  town  I  may  have  been 
said  really  to  have  looked  after  them,  as  was  only 
natural  under  the  circumstances,  and  everybody  was 
glad  to  have  it  so.  But  now  it  is  entirely  different. 
There  is  a  stiffness ;  a  formality.  I  no  longer  feel  that 
I  am  the  chosen  friend  of  the  family.  And  I'm  bound 
to  put  it  down  to  Mollie.  I  go  in  there  sometimes  and 
find  her  with  them,  and — oh,  but  it's  no  use  talking 
about  it.  I  must  say,  though,  that  it's  hard  that 
everything  should  be  upset  for  me  just  because  I  have 
not  failed  in  my  duty.  Standing  as  I  do,  for  the  forces 
of  goodness  and  righteousness  in  the  parish,  it's  a  bitter 
disappointment  to  have  my  influence  spoilt  in  this 
fashion ;  and  when  at  first  I  had  expected  something  so 
different." 

"  Mr.  Grafton  seldom  goes  to  church,  does  he  ?  " 
"  He  has  disappointed  me  very  much  in  that  way. 
I  thought  he  would  be  my  willing  helper  in  my  work. 


180  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

But  he  has  turned  out  quite  indifferent.  And  not  only 
that.  Barbara  would  have  been  confirmed  this  year 
if  they  had  been  in  London.  They  told  me  that  them- 
selves. Of  course  I  offered  to  prepare  her  for  con- 
firmation myself,  as  they  decided  to  stay  here.  They 
shilly-shallied  about  it  for  some  time,  but  a  fortnight 
ago  Miss  Waterhouse  informed  me  that  she  would  not 
be  confirmed  till  next  year." 

"  That's  not  right,"  said  Ethel  decisively.  "  She 
ought  to  have  been  confirmed  long  ago." 

The  Vicar  got  up  to  leave.  "  I'm  afraid  they've 
very  little  sense  of  religion,"  he  said.  "  Well,  one  must 
work  on,  through  good  report  and  ill  report.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  one  will  get  the  reward  of  all  one's 
labours.  Good-bye,  dear  ladies.  It  has  done  me  good 
to  talk  it  all  over  with  you.  And  it  is  a  real  joy  to 
rest  for  a  time  in  such  an  atmosphere  as  this.  I  will 
come  again  next  Sunday." 

They  saw  him  to  the  hall  door  and  watched  him  ride 
off  on  his  bicycle.  Then  they  returned  in  some  excite- 
ment to  the  drawing-room. 

"  The  fact  is  that  he's  put  his  foot  in  it,  and  had  a 
sound  snub,"  said  Rhoda. 

"  He's  behaved  like  a  fool  about  Mollie,  and  now  he's 
as  jealous  as  a  cat  because  she's  left  him  for  somebody 
else,"  said  Ethel. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

A  LETTER 

George  Grafton  got  up  one  morning  in  August  at 
six  o'clock,  as  was  his  now  almost  invariable  custom, 
and  went  to  the  window.  The  rain,  which  had  begun  on 
the  evening  before,  was  coming  down  steadily.  It 
looked  as  if  it  had  rained  all  night  and  would  continue 
to  rain  all  day.  Pools  had  already  collected  in  de- 
pressions of  the  road,  the  slightly  sunken  lawn  under 
his  window  was  like  a  marsh,  and  the  trees  dripped 
heavily  and  dismally. 

He  was  greatly  disappointed.  For  nearly  a  month 
now  he  had  been  hard  at  work  on  the  rock-garden  and 
the  stream  that  had  been  led  into  it.  It  had  been  a 
fascinating  occupation,  planning  and  contriving  and 
doing  the  work  himself  with  no  professional  guidance, 
and  only  occasional  ext»ra  labour  to  lift  or  move  very 
heavy  stones.  He  had  worked  at  it  nearly  every  morn- 
ing before  breakfast,  with  Caroline  and  Barbara,  Bunt- 
ing, and  Beatrix  when  she  had  been  at  home,  and 
Maurice  Bradby,  Worthing's  pupil,  as  an  ardent  and 
constant  helper  both  with  brain  and  with  hands.  They 
had  all  enjoyed  it  immensely.  Those  early  hours  had 
been  the  best  in  the  day.  The  hard  work  had  made  him 
as  fit  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life,  and  he  felt  like  a 
young  man  again. 

181 


182  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

As  he  stood  at  the  window,  Bradby  came  splashing 
up  the  road  in  mackintosh  and  heavy  boots.  He  was 
as  keen  as  the  rest,  and  generally  first  in  the  field. 

"  Hallo !  "  Grafton  called  out  to  him.  "  I'm  afraid 
there's  nothing  doing  this  morning.  I  don't  mind  get- 
ting a  little  wet,  but  this  is  a  bit  too  much." 

Bradby  looked  round  him  at  the  leaden  sky,  which 
showed  no  signs  of  a  break  anywhere.  "  Perhaps  it 
will  clear  up,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  suppose  you'd  be 
out,  but  I  thought  I  might  as  well  come  up.  I  want  to 
see  what  happens  with  the  pipes,  and  where  the  water 
gets  to  with  heavy  rain." 

"  Well,  you  go  up  and  have  a  look,  my  boy,"  said 
Grafton,  *'  and  if  you're  not  drowned  beforehand  come 
to  breakfast.  We  might  be  able  to  get  out  afterwards. 
I'm  going  back  to  bed  now." 

He  went  back  to  bed  and  dozed  intermittently  until 
his  servant  came  in  to  call  him.  The  idle  thoughts  that 
filled  his  brain,  waking  and  half-sleeping,  were  con- 
cerned with  the  rock-garden,  with  the  roses  he  and 
Caroline  had  planted,  with  other  plantings  of  flowers 
and  shrubs,  and  the  satisfaction  that  he  had  already 
gained  or  expected  to  gain  from  them.  The  garden 
came  first.  In  the  summer  it  provided  the  chief  interest 
of  the  country,  and  the  pleasure  it  had  brought  was  at 
least  as  great  as  that  to  be  gained  from  the  sports 
of  autumn  and  winter.  But  it  was  not  only  the  garden 
as  giving  these  pleasures  of  contrivance,  expectation 
and  satisfaction,  that  coloured  his  thoughts  as  he  lay 
drowsily  letting  them  wander  over  the  aspects  of  the 


A  LETTER  183 

life  he  was  so  much  enjoying.  It  was  the  great  play- 
ground, in  these  rich  summer  months,  when  he  had 
usually  shunned  the  English  country  as  lying  in  its 
state  of  quiescence,  and  affording  none  of  the  distrac- 
tions to  be  found  elsewhere.  Lawn  tennis  and  other 
garden  games,  with  the  feeling  of  fitness  they  induced, 
the  companionship  they  brought  in  the  long  afternoons 
when  people  came  to  play  and  talk  and  enjoy  them- 
selves, and  the  consequent  heightening  of  the  physical 
satisfaction  of  meals,  cool  drinks,  baths,  changing  of 
clothes ;  the  lazy  hours  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  with  a 
book,  or  family  chat  in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  with  the 
bees  droning  among  the  flowers  in  the  soaking  sunshine, 
and  few  other  sounds  to  disturb  the  peace  and  the  se- 
curity ;  the  intermittent  wanderings  to  look  at  this  or 
that  which  had  been  looked  at  a  score  of  times  before, 
but  was  always  worth  looking  at  again — those  garden 
hours  impressed  themselves  upon  the  memory,  sliding 
into  one  another,  until  the  times  of  rain  and  storm 
were  forgotten,  and  life  seemed  to  be  lived  in  the  gar- 
den, in  the  yellow  sunshine  or  the  cool  green  shade. 

The  influence  of  the  garden  extended  itself  to  the 
house  in  these  summer  days.  This  room  in  which  he 
was  lying — it  was  a  joy  to  wake  up  in  it  in  the  morn- 
ing— to  be  awakened  by  the  sun  pouring  in  beams  of 
welcome  and  invitation ;  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  lie 
down  in  it  at  night,  flooded  with  the  fragrant  air  that 
had  picked  up  sweetness  and  freshness  from  the  trees 
and  the  grass.  The  stone  hall  was  cool  and  gratefully 
dim,  when  one  came  in  out  of  the  heat  and  glare  of  the 


184!  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

hottest  hours  of  the  day.  The  long  low  library  between 
the  sunk  lawn  and  the  cloister  court,  whose  calf-bound 
treasures,  which  he  never  looked  into,  gave  it  a  mellow 
retired  air,  was  a  pleasant  room  in  which  to  write  the 
few  letters  that  had  to  be  written  or  do  the  small 
amount  of  business  that  had  to  be  done ;  or,  when  there 
were  men  in  the  house,  to  give  them  their  refreshments 
or  their  tobacco  in.  The  long  gallery  was  a  still 
pleasanter  room,  facing  the  setting  sun  and  the  garden 
and  the  trees,  with  a  glimpse  of  the  park,  and  nothing 
to  be  seen  from  its  deep-recessed  windows  but  those 
surrounding  cultivated  spaces.  All  the  rooms  of  the 
house  were  pleasant  rooms,  and  pervaded  with  that 
sense  of  retired  and  gracious  beauty  which  came 
from  their  outlook,  into  garden  or  park  or  ancient 
court. 

The  rain  showed  signs  of  decreasing  at  breakfast- 
time,  and  there  were  some  ragged  fringes  to  be  seen  in 
the  grey  curtain  of  cloud  that  had  overhung  the  drip- 
ping world.  Bradby  had  not  put  in  his  appearance. 
Although  he  was  now  made  as  welcome  as  anybody 
when  he  came  to  the  Abbey,  and  had  proved  himself 
of  the  utmost  assistance  in  many  of  the  pursuits  that 
were  carried  on  there  with  such  keenness,  his  diffidence 
still  hung  to  him.  Perhaps  the  invitation  had  not  been 
clear  enough ;  he  would  not  come,  except  at  times  when 
it  was  clearly  expected  of  him,  or  to  meals,  without  a 
clearly  understood  invitation. 

Young  George  clamoured  for  him  during  breakfast. 
His  father  had  announced  a  morning  with  letters  and 


A  LETTER  185 

papers,  too  long  postponed.  Young  George  wanted 
somebody  to  play  with,  and  Bradby,  after  his  father, 
and  now  even  before  Barbara,  was  his  chosen  com- 
panion. 

"  He  has  work  to  do,  you  know,  Bunting,"  said 
Caroline.     "  He  can't  always  be  coming  here." 

"  He  may  be  going  about  the  estate,"  said  Young 
George.    "  I  shall  go  down  to  the  office  after  breakfast." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  over  and  see  Jimmy  Beckley .''  " 
asked  Barbara.  "  You  could  ride.  I'll  come  with  you, 
if  you  like,  and  the  Dragon  will  let  me.  I  should  like 
to  see  Vera  and  the  others." 

Bunting  thought  he  would.  It  would  be  rather  fun 
to  see  old  Jimmy,  and  it  would  be  certain  to  clear  up 
by  the  time  they  got  to  Feltham. 

"  I  believe  it  is  going  to  clear  up,"  said  Grafton, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  "  Shall  you  and  I  ride  too, 
Cara?  I  must  write  a  few  letters.  They're  getting 
on  my  mind  now ;  but  we  could  start  about  eleven." 

So  it  was  agreed.  They  stood  at  the  hall  door  after 
breakfast  and  looked  at  the  rain.  Then  Grafton  went 
into  the  library,  and  was  soon  immersed  in  his  writing. 
Even  that  was  rather  agreeable,  for  a  change.  It  was 
so  quiet  and  secluded  in  this  old  book-lined  room. 
And  there  was  the  ride  to  come,  pleasant  to  look  for- 
ward to  even  if  it  continued  to  rain,  trotting  along  the 
muddy  roads,  between  the  hedges  and  trees  and  fields, 
and  coming  back  with  the  two  girls  and  the  boy  to  a 
lunch  that  would  have  been  earned  by  exercise.  Every- 
thing was  pleasant  in  this  quiet  easy  life,  of  which  the 


186  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

present  hour's  letter-writing  and  going  through  of 
papers  was  the  only  thing  needed  to  keep  the  machinery 
going,  at  least  by  him.  It  was  only  a  pity  that  B 
wasn't  there.  He  missed  B,  with  her  loving  merry  ways, 
and  she  did  love  Abington,  and  the  life  there,  as  much 
as  any  of  them.  He  would  write  a  line  to  his  little 
B,  up  in  Scotland,  before  he  went  out,  and  tell  her  that 
he  wanted  her  back,  and  she'd  better  come  quickly. 
She  couldn't  be  enjoying  herself  as  much  as  she  would 
if  she  came  home,  to  her  ever  loving  old  Daddy. 

The  second  post  came  in  just  as  he  had  finished. 
Caroline  had  already  looked  in  to  say  that  she  was 
going  up  to  change.  He  took  the  envelopes  and  the 
papers  from  old  Jarvis,  and  looked  at  certain  financial 
quotations  before  going  through  the  letters.  There 
was  only  one  he  wanted  to  open  before  going  upstairs. 
It  was  from  Beatrix — a  large  square  envelope  ad- 
dressed in  an  uneven  rather  sprawling  hand,  not  yet 
fully  formed. 

Caroline  waited  for  him  in  the  hall.  The  horses  were 
being  led  up  and  down  outside.  He  was  usually  a  model 
of  punctuality,  but  she  was  already  considering  going 
up  to  see  what  had  happened  to  him  when  he  came 
down  the  shallow  stairs,  in  his  breeches  and  gaiters. 

"  What  a  time  you've  been !  "  she  said. 

He  did  not  reply,  and  had  his  back  to  her  as  old 
Jarvis  helped  him  on  with  his  raincoat  and  handed 
him  his  gloves  and  crop.  She  did  not  notice  that  there 
was  anything  wrong  with  him  until  they  were  mounted 
and  had  set  off.     Then  she  saw  his  face  and  exclaimed 


A  LETTER  187 

in  quick  alarm:  "  Wliat's  the  matter,  darling?  Aren't 
you  well  ?  " 

His  voice  was  not  like  his  as  he  replied :  "  I've  had  a 
letter  from  B.     She  says  she's  engaged  to  Lassigny." 

Caroline  had  to  use  her  brain  quickly  to  divine  how 
such  a  piece  of  news  would  affect  him.  But  for  his 
view  of  it,  it  would  have  been  only  rather  exciting.  She 
knew  Lassigny,  and  liked  him.  "  I  didn't  know  he  was 
there,"  she  said  lamely. 

"  She  hasn't  told  me  that  he  was,"  he  said.  "  I  sup- 
pose he  went  up  there  after  her — got  himself  an  invi- 
tation.    He's  staying  in  the  house." 

"  I  don't  think  he'd  do  anything  underhand,  Dad." 

"  I  don't  say  it  would  be  underhand.  If  he  hasn't 
done  that  he  must  have  been  invited  with  all  the  rest, 
and  she  must  have  known  it.     But  she  never  said  so." 

Caroline  was  disturbed  at  the  bitterness  with  which 
he  spoke,  and  did  not  quite  understand  it.  He  had 
made  no  objections  to  Lassigny  as  a  friend  of  hers,  nor 
to  her  having  asked  him  to  Abington  at  Whitsuntide. 
He  seemed  to  have  liked  him  himself.  What  was  it  that 
he  was  so  upset  about.?     Was  it  with  Beatrix.''  " 

"  Do  you  think  she  ought  not  to  have  accepted  him 
without  asking  you  first,  darling.?  "  she  said.  "  I  sup- 
pose she  does  ask  your  permission." 

"  No,  she  doesn't.  She  takes  it  for  granted.  She's 
engaged  to  him,  and  hopes  I  shall  be  as  happy  about  it 
as  she  is.  He's  going  to  write  to  me.  But  there's  no 
letter  from  him  yet." 

"  I  think  she  ought  to  have  asked  your  permission. 


188  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

But  I  suppose  when  that  sort  of  thing  comes  to  you 
suddenly " 

"  He  ought  certainly  to  have  asked  my  permission," 
he  interrupted  her. 

"  Oh,  but  darling !  You  hardly  expect  that  In  these 
days,  do  you?  He's  seen  her  everywhere;  he's  been 
invited  here.  It  would  be  enough,  wouldn't  it.'' — if  he 
writes  to  you  at  once.  Francis  didn't  ask  you  before 
he  asked  me ;  and  you  didn't  mind." 

"  Francis  is  an  Englishman.  This  fellow's  a  French- 
man.    Things  aren't  done  in  that  way  in  France." 

'  This  fellow ! '  She  didn't  understand  his  obvious 
hostility.  Did  he  know  anything  against  Lassigny.  If 
so,  surely  he  must  have  found  it  out  quite  lately. 

"  Why  do  you  object  to  the  idea  so  much,  darling? 
I  think  he's  nice." 

"  Oh,  nice !  "  he  echoed.  "  I  told  you  the  other  day 
that  I  should  hate  the  idea  of  one  of  you  marrying  a 
foreigner." 

He  had  told  her  that,  and  she  had  replied  that 
Lassigny  hardly  seemed  like  a  foreigner.  It  was  no 
good  saying  it  again.  She  wanted  to  soothe  him,  and 
to  help  him  if  she  could. 

"  What  shall  you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I'm  going  to  wire  to  her  to  come  home  at  once — 
send  a  wire  now." 

He  turned  aside  on  to  the  grass,  and  then  cantered 
down  to  the  gate.  Caroline  would  have  wished  to  dis- 
cuss it  further  before  he  took  the  step  he  had  an- 
nounced,   but,    although    she    was    on    terms    of    such 


A  LETTER  189 

equality  with  him,  she  had  never  yet  questioned  a  de- 
cision of  his  when  he  had  announced  one.  His  author- 
ity, so  loosely  exercised  over  his  children,  was  yet 
paramount. 

They  rode  into  the  village  without  exchanging  more 
words,  and  he  dismounted  at  the  Post-Office,  while  she 
held  his  horse. 

Worthing  came  out  of  the  Estate  Office,  which  was 
nearly  opposite,  to  speak  to  her.  She  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  chat  to  him  about  nothing,  and  to  keep  a  bright 
face,  but  he  relieved  her  of  much  of  the  difficulty,  for 
he  never  had  any  himself  in  finding  words  to  pass  the 
time  with. 

"  And  how's  Beatrix  getting  on?  "  he  asked.  "  Heard 
from  her  since  she's  been  up  on  the  moors  ?  " 

"  Father  had  a  letter  from  her  this  morning,"  she 
said.  "  He  wants  her  home."  This,  at  least,  would 
prepare  the  way  for  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
Beatrix. 

"  Oh,  we  all  want  her  home,"  he  said. 

Grafton  came  out  of  the  office,  still  with  the  dark 
look  on  his  face,  which  was  usually  so  smiling  and  con- 
tented. It  cleared  for  a  moment  as  he  greeted  Worth- 
ing, who  had  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  him  about  estate 
matters.  Suddenly  Grafton  said :  "  I  should  like  to 
talk  to  you  about  something.  Give  me  some  lunch,  will 
you.?  We  shall  be  back  about  one.  Send  young  Bradby 
down  to  us.    I'll  eat  what's  prepared  for  him." 

When  he  had  mounted  again  he  said  to  Caroline, 
"  I'm  going  to  talk  it  over  with  Worthing.     One  wants 


190  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

a  man's  opinion  on  these  matters,  and  his  is  sound 
enough." 

She  felt  a  trifle  hurt,  without  quite  knowing  why. 
*'  If  you  find  it's  all  right,  you're  not  going  to  stop  it, 
are  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  How  can  it  be  all  right  ?  "  he  asked  with  some  im- 
patience, which  hurt  her  still  more,  for  he  never  used 
that  tone  with  her. 

"  I  mean,  if  they  love  each  other." 

"  Oh,  love  each  other !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  She's  hardly 
out  of  the  nursery.  A  fellow  like  that — years  older 
than  she  is,  but  young  enough  to  make  himself  attrac- 
tive— he  knows  how  to  make  love  to  a  young  girl,  if 
he  wants  to.     Had  plenty  of  practice,  I  dare  say." 

It  was  an  unhappy  ride  for  Caroline.  His  mood  was 
one  of  bitterness,  chiefly  against  Lassigny,  but  also 
against  Beatrix — though  with  regard  to  her  it  was  shot 
with  streaks  of  tenderness.  At  one  time,  he  ought  not 
to  have  let  her  go  away  without  seeing  that  there  was 
somebody  to  look  after  her  and  prevent  her  from  get- 
ting into  mischief — but  he  had  trusted  her,  and  never 
thought  she'd  do  this  sort  of  thing;  at  another,  she 
was  so  young  and  so  pretty  that  she  couldn't  be  ex- 
pected to  know  what  men  were  like.  Poor  little  B ! 
If  onl}'  he'd  kept  her  at  home  a  bit  longer !  She  was 
always  happy  enough  at  home. 

To  Caroline,  with  her  orderly  mind,  it  seemed  that 
there  were  only  two  questions  worth  discussing  at  all — 
whether  there  was  any  tangible  objection  to  Lassigny 
as  a  husband  for  Beatrix,  and,  if  her  father's  objec- 


A  LETTER  191 

tions  to  her  marrying  him  were  so  strong,  what  he  pro- 
posed to  do.  She  had  inherited  this  orderHness  of  mind 
from  him.  As  a  general  rule  he  went  straight  to  the 
heart  of  a  subject,  and  all  subsidiary  considerations 
fell  into  their  proper  place.  But  she  could  not  get  an 
answer  to  either  of  these  questions,  though  with  regard 
to  the  latter  he  seemed  to  consider  it  of  great  impor- 
tance to  get  Beatrix  home  and  talk  to  her.  This  would 
have  been  very  well  if  it  had  simply  meant  that  he 
wanted  to  find  out  whether  she  had  pledged  herself 
lightly,  and,  if  he  thought  she  had,  do  all  he  could  to 
dissuade  her.  Or  if  there  had  been  anything  he  could 
have  brought  up  against  Lassigny,  which  might  have 
affected  her,  other  than  his  being  a  foreigner,  which 
certainly  wouldn't.  He  never  said  that  he  would  for- 
bid the  marriage,  nor  even  that  he  would  postpone  it 
for  a  certain  period,  both  of  which  he  could  have  done 
until  Beatrix  should  come  of  age. 

Longing  as  she  did  to  put  herself  in  line  with  him 
whenever  she  could,  she  allowed  his  feelings  against 
Lassigny  to  affect  her.  There  was  nothing  tangible. 
He  knew  nothing  against  him — hardly  anything  about 
him,  indeed,  except  what  all  the  world  of  his  friends 
knew.  With  an  Englishman  in  the  same  position  it 
would  have  been  quite  enough.  From  a  worldly  point 
of  view  the  match  would  be  unexceptionable.  There 
was  wealth  as  well  as  station,  and  the  station  was  of 
the  sort  that  would  be  recognised  in  England,  under 
the  circumstances  of  Lassigny's  English  tastes  and 
English  sojourns.     But  that  side  of  it  was  never  men- 


192  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

tioned.  She  had  the  impression  of  Lassigny  as  some- 
thing different  from  what  she  had  ever  known  him — 
with  something  dark  and  secret  in  his  background, 
something  that  would  soil  Beatrix,  or  at  least  bring 
her  unhappiness  in  marriage.  And  yet  it  was  nothing 
definite.  When  she  asked  him  directly  if  he  knew 
anything  against  him,  he  answered  her  impatiently 
again.  Oh,  no.  The  fellow  was  a  Frenchman.  That 
was  all  he  needed  to  know. 

They  were  no  nearer  to  anything,  and  she  was  no 
nearer  to  him,  when  they  arrived  at  Feltham  Hall. 
When  they  had  passed  through  the  lodge  gates  he 
suddenly  said  that  he  would  ride  back  alone.  She  would 
be  all  right  with  Barbara  and  Bunting. 

He  turned  and  rode  off,  with  hardly  a  good-bye  to 
her. 

Worthing  lived  in  comfortable  style  in  an  old-fash- 
ioned farmhouse,  which  had  been  adapted  to  the  use  of 
a  gentleman  of  quality.  The  great  kitchen  had  been 
converted  into  a  sitting-room,  the  parlour  made  a 
convenient  dining-room,  and  there  were  four  or  five 
oak-raftered  lattice-windowed  bedrooms,  with  a  wider 
view  over  the  surrounding  country  than  was  gained 
from  any  window  of  the  Abbey,  which  lay  rather  in  a 
hollow.  As  Grafton  waited  for  his  host,  walking  about 
his  comfortable  bachelor's  room,  or  sitting  dejectedly 
by  the  open  window  looking  out  on  to  the  rain,  which 
had  again  begun  to  come  down  heavily,  he  was  half- 
inclined  to  envy  Worthing  his  well-placed  congenial 
existence.     A  bachelor — if  he  were  a  bachelor  by  tem- 


A  LETTER  193 

peramcnt — lived  a  life  free  of  care.  Such  troubles 
as  this  that  had  so  suddenly  come  to  disturb  his  own 
more  elaborate  life  he  was  at  least  immune  from. 

He  was  glad  to  have  Worthing  to  consult  with. 
Among  all  his  numerous  friends  there  was  none  to 
whom  he  would  have  preferred  to  unburden  himself. 
Sometimes  a  man  of  middle-age,  whose  friendships  are 
for  the  most  part  founded  on  old  associations,  comes 
across  another  man  with  whom  it  is  as  easy  to  become 
intimate  as  it  used  to  be  with  all  and  sundry  in  youth: 
and  when  that  happens  barriers  fall  even  more  easily 
than  in  youthful  friendships.  Grafton  had  found  such 
a  man  in  Worthing.  He  was  impatient  for  his  arrival. 
He  was  so  unused  to  bearing  mental  burdens,  and 
wanted  to  share  this  one.  Caroline  had  brought  him 
little  comfort.  He  did  not  think  of  her,  as  he  waited 
for  Worthing  to  come  in;  while  she,  riding  home  with 
Barbara  and  Bunting,  and  exerting  herself  to  keep 
them  from  suspecting  that  there  was  anything  wrong 
with  her,  was  thinking  of  nobody  but  him. 

He  told  Worthing  what  he  had  come  to  tell  him  the 
moment  he  came  in.  He  remembered  that  fellow 
Lassigny  who  had  stayed  with  them  at  Whitsuntide. 
Well,  he  had  had  a  letter  from  Beatrix  to  say  that  she 
was  engaged  to  him.  He  was  very  much  upset  about  it. 
He  had  wired  to  Beatrix  to  come  home  at  once. 

Worthing  disposed  his  cheerful  face  to  an  expres- 
sion of  concern,  and  said,  "  Dear,  dear !  "  in  a  tone 
of  deep  sympathy.  But  it  was  plain  that  he  did  not 
quite  understand  why  his  friend  should  be  so  upset. 


194  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

*'  I  never  expected  anything  of  the  sort,"  said  Graf- 
ton. "  He  ought  to  have  come  to  me  first ;  or  at  least 
she  ought  to  have  asked  my  permission  before  announc- 
ing that  she'd  engaged  herself  to  him.  I  suppose  she's 
told  everybody  up  there.    I'm  going  to  have  her  home." 

"  She's  very  young,"  said  Worthing  tentatively. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  minded  that  if  he  had  been  tho 
right  sort  of  fellow.  How  can  I  let  a  girl  of  mine  marry 
a  Frenchman,  Worthing  .^^  " 

Lunch  was  announced  at  that  moment.  Worthing 
took  Grafton  up  to  his  room  to  wash  his  hands,  and 
he  expressed  his  disturbance  of  mind  and  the  reasons 
for  it  still  further  until  they  came  downstairs  again, 
without  Worthing  saying  much  in  reply,  or  indeed 
being  given  an  opportunity  of  doing  so.  It  was  not 
until  they  were  seated  at  lunch  and  the  maid  had  left 
the  room  that  Worthing  spoke  to  any  purpose. 

"  Well,  of  course,  you'd  rather  she  married  an  Eng- 
lishman," he  said.  "  And  I  suppose  it's  a  bit  of  a 
shock  to  you  to  find  that  she  wants  to  marry  anybody, 
as  young  as  she  is.  But  do  you  know  anything  against 
this  chap?  He  isn't  a  wrong  'un,  is  he?  You  rather 
talk  as  if  he  were.  But  you  had  him  down  here  to  stay. 
You  let  him  be  just  as  friendly  with  the  girls  as  any- 
body else." 

He  spoke  with  some  decision,  as  if  he  had  offered 
enough  sympathy  with  a  vague  grievance,  and  wanted 
it  specified  if  he  was  to  help  or  advise  as  to  a  course  to 
be  taken.  It  was  what  Caroline  had  been  trying  to  get 
at,  and  had  not  been  able  to. 


A  LETTER  195 

"Can't  you  understand?"  asked  Grafton,  also  with 
more  decision  in  his  speech  than  he  had  used  before. 
"  You  don't  go  abroad  much,  I  know.  But  I  suppose 
you've  read  a  few  French  novels." 

Worthing  looked  genuinely  puzzled.  "  I  can't  say 
I  have,"  he  said.  "  Jorrocks  is  more  in  my  line.  But 
what  are  you  driving  at  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  how  men  in  France  are  brought 
up  to  look  at  women.''  They  don't  marry  like  we  do, 
and  they  don't  lead  the  same  lives  after  they're  married. 
At  least  men  of  Lassigny's  sort  don't." 

Worthing  considered  this.  "  You  mean  you  don't 
think  he's  fit  for  her?  "  he  said  judicially. 

Grafton  did  not  reply  to  his  question  in  direct  terms. 
"  He's  three  or  four  and  thirty,"  he  said.  "  He's  lived 
the  life  of  his  sort,  in  Paris,  and  elsewhere.  It's  been 
so  natural  to  him  that  he  wouldn't  affect  to  hide  it  if 
I  asked  him  about  it.  It  wouldn't  be  any  good  if  he 
did.  If  I  liked  to  go  over  to  Paris  and  get  among 
the  people  who  know  him,  there'd  be  all  sorts  of  stories 
I  could  pick  up  for  the  asking.  Nobody  w^ould  think 
there  was  any  disgrace  in  them — for  him.  What  does 
a  fellow  like  that — a  fellow  of  that  age,  with  all  those 
experiences  behind  him — what  does  he  want  with  my 
little  B?    Damn  him!" 

This  was  very  different  from  the  rather  pointless 
complaints  that  had  gone  before.  Worthing  did  not 
reply  immediately.  His  honest  simple  mind  inclined 
him  towards  speech  that  should  not  be  a  mere  shirking 
of  the  question.     But  it  was  difficult.     "  I  don't  sup- 


196  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

pose  there  are  many  fellows,  either  French  or  English, 
you'd  want  to  marry  your  daughters  to,  if  you  judged 
them  in  that  way,"  he  said  quietly. 

Grafton  looked  at  him.  "  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
yoiid  have  taken  that  line,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  French,"  Worthing 
went  on.  "  I've  heard  fellows  say  that  they  do  openly 
what  we  do  in  the  dark.  Far  as  I'm  concerned,  it's 
outside  my  line  of  life  altogether.  I've  had  all  I  wanted 
with  sport,  and  a  country  life,  and  being  on  friendly 
terms  with  a  lot  of  people.  Still,  you  don't  get  to 
forty-five  without  having  looked  about  you  a  bit.  I 
believe  there  are  more  fellows  like  me  than  you'd  think 
to  hear  a  lot  of  'em  talk ;  but  3'ou  know  there  are 
plenty  who  aren't.  They  do  marry  nice  girls,  and 
make  'em  good  husbands  too." 

Grafton  looked  down  on  his  plate,  with  a  frown  on 
his  face.  Then  he  looked  up  again.  "  That  doesn't 
corner  me,"  he  said.  "  The  right  sort  of  man  makes  a 
new  start  when  he  marries — with  us.  Fellows  like  that 
don't  pretend  to,  except  just  for  a  time  perhaps — until 
• — Oh,  I  can't  talk  about  it.  It's  all  too  beastly — to 
think  of  her  being  looked  upon  in  that  way.  I'm  going 
to  stop  it.  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  won't  consent; 
and  she  can't  marry  without  my  consent." 


CHAPTER   Xiy 

LASSIGNY 

Beatrix's  answer  to  his  telegram  came  that  a^'cernoon. 

"  Don't  want  to  come  home  yet  Please  let  me  stay 
Am  writing  much  love." 

This  angered  him.  It  was  a  defiance ;  or  so  it  struck 
him.  He  went  down  to  the  Post-Office  himself,  and 
sent  another  wire. 

"  Come  up  by  morning  train  will  meet  you  in  Lon- 
don." 

The  rain  had  ceased.  As  he  walked  back  over  the 
muddy  path  that  led  through  the  park,  the  evening  sun 
shone  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  and  most  of  the 
sky  was  already  clear  again.  How  he  would  have  en- 
joyed this  renewal  of  life  and  sunshine  the  evening  be- 
fore! But  his  mind  was  as  dark  now  as  the  sky  had 
been  all  day,  and  the  relenting  of  nature  brought  it 
no  relief. 

Barbara  and  Bunting  were  out  in  the  park  with  their 
mashics  and  putters,  on  the  little  practice  course  he 
had  laid  out.  He  kept  the  church  between  himself  and 
them  as  he  neared  the  house.  They  already  knew  that 
there  was  something  amiss,  and  were  puzzled  and  dis- 
turbed about  it.  In  his  life  that  had  gone  so  smoothly 
there  had  never  been  anything  to  make  him  shun  the 

197 


198  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

company  of  his  children,  or  to  spoil  their  pleasure  in 
his  society,  because  of  annoyance  that  he  could  not 
hide  from  them.  He  must  tell  them  something — or  per- 
haps Caroline  had  better — or  Miss  Waterhouse.  He 
didn't  want  to  tell  them  himself.  It  would  make  too 
much  of  it.  Beatrix  was  going  to  be  brought  home ; 
but  not  in  disgrace.  He  didn't  want  that.  She  would 
be  disappointed  at  first;  but  she  would  get  over  it,  and 
they  would  all  be  as  happy  together  as  before.  His 
thoughts  did  lighten  a  little  as  they  dwelt  for  a  mo- 
ment on  that. 

He  called  for  Caroline  when  he  got  into  the  house. 
He  felt  some  compunction  about  her.  He  had  taken  her 
into  his  confidence,  and  then  he  had  seemed  to  withdraw 
it,  though  he  had  not  meant  to  do  so.  Of  course  he 
couldn't  have  told  her  the  grounds  of  his  objections  to 
Lassigny  as  he  had  told  them  to  Worthing,  but  he 
owed  it  to  her  to  say  at  least  what  he  was  going  to  do. 
She  had  been  very  sweet  to  him  at  tea-time,  trying  her 
best  to  keep  up  the  usual  bright  conversation,  and  to 
hide  from  the  children  that  there  was  anything  wrong 
with  him,  which  he  had  not  taken  much  trouble  to  hide 
himself.  And  she  had  put  her  hand  on  his  knee  under 
the  table,  to  show  him  that  she  loved  him  and  had  sym- 
pathy with  him.  He  had  been  immersed  in  his  dark 
thoughts  and  had  not  returned  her  soft  caress ;  and 
this  troubled  him  a  little,  though  he  knew  he  could 
make  it  all  right. 

She  came  out  to  him  at  once  from  the  morning-room, 
with  some  needlework  in  her  hand.     He  took  her  face 


LASSIGNY  199 

between  his  hands  and  kissed  it.  "  I've  sent  B  another 
wire  to  say  she  must  come  to  London  to-morrow,"  he 
said,  "  and  I'll  meet  her." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  with  her  eyes  moist.  "  That 
will  be  the  best  way,  Daddy,"  she  said.  "  It  will  be  all 
right  when  you  talk  to  one  another." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  they  went  into  the 
morning-room.  Miss  Waterhouse  was  there,  also  with 
needlework  in  her  hands.  "  I've  told  the  Dragon," 
said  Caroline  in  a  lighter  tone.  "  You  didn't  tell  me 
not  to  tell  anybody.  Dad." 

He  sat  down  by  the  window  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
"  You'd  better  tell  Barbara  and  Bunting  too,"  he  said. 
"  B  ought  not  to  have  engaged  herself  without  asking 
me  first.  Anyhow,  she's  much  too  young  yet.  I  can't 
allow  any  engagement,  for  at  least  a  year.  I  shall 
bring  her  down  here,  and  we'll  all  be  happy  together." 

Caroline  felt  an  immense  lightening  of  the  tension. 
He  had  spoken  in  his  usual  equable  untroubled  voice, 
announcing  a  decision  in  the  way  that  had  always  made 
his  word  law  in  the  family,  though  he  had  never  be- 
fore announced  a  decision  of  such  importance.  Re- 
sponsibility was  lifted  from  her  shoulders.  It  had 
seemed  to  be  her  part  to  help  him  in  uncertainty  of 
mind,  and  she  had  felt  herself  inadequate  to  the  task. 
But  now  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  and  she  had  only  to 
accept  his  decision.  Beatrix  also,  though  it  might  be 
harder  for  her.  But  she  would  accept  her  father's 
ruling.  They  had  always  obe^^ed  him,  and  he  had 
made  obedience  so  easy.    After  all,  he  did  know  best. 


200  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Miss  Waterhouse  laid  down  her  work  on  her  lap. 
"  I'm  sure  it  will  be  the  best  thing  just  to  say  that  there 
can  be  no  engagement  for  a  certain  fixed  time,"  she 
said.  It  was  seldom  that  she  offered  any  advice  with- 
out being  directly  asked  for  it.  But  she  said  this  with 
some  earnestness,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face. 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  way,"  he  said,  and  she 
took  up  her  work  again. 

He  did  not  revert  again  to  his  gloomy  state  that 
evening.  He  and  Caroline  presently  went  out  and 
joined  Barbara  and  Bunting.  They  played  golf  till 
it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  played  bridge  after 
dinner.  He  was  his  usual  self,  except  that  he  occa- 
sionally lapsed  into  silence  and  did  not  respond  to 
what  was  said.     Beatrix's  name  was  not  mentioned. 

He  went  up  to  London  early  the  next  morning,  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  at  the  Bank,  and  dined  at 
one  of  his  clubs.  He  played  bridge  afterwards  until 
it  was  time  to  go  to  the  station  to  meet  the  train  by 
which  Beatrix  would  come.  So  far  he  had  successively 
staved  off  unpleasant  thoughts.  He  had  not  been  alone 
all  day,  for  he  had  found  acquaintances  in  the  train 
going  up  to  London.  He  had  wanted  not  to  be  alone. 
He  had  wanted  to  keep  up  that  mood  of  lightly  poised 
but  unquestioned  authority,  in  which  he  would  tell 
Beatrix,  without  putting  blame  on  her  for  what  she 
had  done,  that  it  couldn't  be,  and  then  dismiss  the 
matter  as  far  as  possible  from  his  mind,  and  leave  her 
to  get  over  her  disappointment,  which  he  thought  she 
would  do  quickly.     He  was  not  quite  pleased  with  her, 


LASSIGNY  201 

which  prevented  him  from  sympathising  much  before- 
hand with  whatever  disappointment  she  might  feel; 
but  his  annoyance  had  largely  subsided,  and  he  was 
actually  looking  forward  with  pleasure  to  seeing  her 
dear  face  again  and  getting  her  loving  greeting. 

Unfortunately  the  train  was  late,  and  he  had  to  pace 
the  platform  for  five  and  twenty  minutes,  during  which 
time  this  lighter  mood  in  its  turn  gave  way  to  one  of 
trouble  almost  as  great  as  he  had  felt  at  first. 

He  had  had  no  reply  to  his  second  telegram,  al- 
though he  had  given  instructions  that  if  one  came  it 
was  to  be  wired  on  to  him  at  the  Bank.  Supposing 
she  didn't  come ! 

He  had  not  yet  heard  from  Lassigny;  but  if  he  had 
missed  a  post  after  Beatrix  had  written,  his  letter  would 
not  have  reached  Abington  until  the  second  post.  But 
suppose  Lassigny  was  travelling  down  with  her! 

What  he  had  been  staving  off  all  day,  instinctively, 
was  the  ugly  possibility  of  Beatrix  defying  his  author- 
ity. It  would  mean  a  fight  between  them,  and  he  would 
win  the  fight.  But  it  would  be  the  upsetting  of  all 
contentment  in  life,  as  long  as  it  lasted,  and  it  would 
so  alter  the  relations  between  him  and  the  child  he 
loved  that  they  would  probably  never  be  the  same 
again. 

This  possibility  of  Lassigny  being  with  her  now — of 
his  undertaking  her  defence  against  her  father,  and  of 
her  putting  herself  into  his  hands  to  act  for  her — had 
not  actually  occurred  to  him  before.  The  idea  of  it 
angered  him  greatly,  and  stiffened  him  against  her. 


202  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

There  was  no  pleasure  now  in  his  anticipation  of  seeing 
her  again. 

But  he  melted  completely  when  he  did  see  her.  She 
and  her  maid  were  alone  in  their  compartment,  and  she 
was  standing  at  the  door  looking  out  eagerly  for  him. 
She  jumped  out  at  once  and  ran  to  him.  "  My  darling 
old  Daddy !  "  she  said,  with  her  arm  round  his  neck. 
"  You're  an  angel  to  come  up  and  meet  me,  and  I'm  so 
pleased  to  see  you.  I  suppose  we're  going  to  Cadogan 
Place  to-night,  aren't  we?  " 

Not  a  word  was  said  between  them  of  what  they  had 
come  together  for  until  they  were  sitting  in  the  dining- 
room  over  a  light  supper.  The  maid,  who  was  the  chil- 
dren's old  nurse,  had  been  in  the  car  with  them.  Bea- 
trix had  asked  many  questions  about  Abington,  and 
had  chattered  about  the  moors,  but  had  not  mentioned 
Lassigny's  name.  If  she  had  chattered  even  rather  more 
than  she  would  have  done  normally  upon  a  similar 
meeting,  it  was  the  only  sign  of  something  else  that 
was  filling  her  mind.  She  had  not  been  in  the  least 
nervous  in  manner,  and  her  affection  towards  him  was 
abundantly  shown,  and  obviously  not  strained  to  please 
him.  If  his  thoughts  of  her  had  been  tinged  with  bitter- 
ness, she  seemed  to  have  escaped  that  feeling  towards 
him. 

He  supposed  she  had  not  understood  his  hostility 
towards  her  engagement.  His  telegram  had  only  sum- 
moned her.  It  would  make  his  task  rather  more  diffi- 
cult. But  the  relief  of  finding  her  still  his  loving  child 
was  greater  than  any  other  consideration.     If  he  had 


LASSIGNY  203 

taken  refuge  in  bitter  thoughts  against  her,  lie  knew 
now  how  unsatisfying  they  were.  He  only  wanted  her 
love,  and  that  had  not  been  affected.  He  also  wanted 
her  happiness,  and  if  it  was  to  be  his  part  to  safeguard 
it  for  the  future,  by  refusing  her  what  she  wanted  in 
the  present,  it  touched  him  now  to  think  that  his  refusal 
must  wound  her.  He  had  not  allowed  that  considera- 
tion to  affect  him  hitherto. 

"  Well,  darling,"  he  said,  "  you've  given  me  a  shock. 
These  affairs  aren't  settled  quite  in  that  way,  you 
know." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile  and  a  flush.  "  I 
was  so  happy,"  she  said,  "  that  I  forgot  all  about  that. 
But  I  came  when  you  wanted  me.  Daddy." 

Yes,  it  was  going  to  be  very  difficult.  But  he  must 
not  allow  his  tenderness  to  take  charge  of  him,  though  he 
could  use  it  to  soften  the  breaking  of  his  decision  to  her. 

"  Why  didn't  he  write  to  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"  He  did,"  she  said.     "  Didn't  you  get  his  letter?  " 

"  I  haven't  had  it  yet.  If  he  wrote,  I  shall  get  it 
to-morrow,  forwarded  from  Abington.  He  ought  not  to 
have  asked  you  to  engage  yourself  to  him  without  ask- 
ing my  permission  first." 

"  Well,  you  see,  darling,  it  seemed  to  come  about 
naturally.  I  suppose  everybody  was  expecting  it, — 
everybody  but  me,  that  is,"  she  laughed  gently — "  and 
when  it  did  come,  of  course  everybody  knew.  He  said 
he  must  write  to  you  at  once.  He  did  think  of  coming 
down  at  once  to  see  you,  but  I  didn't  want  him  to. 
Still,  when  your  second  telegram  came,  he  said  you'd 


204  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

expect  it  of  him;  so  he's  coming  down  to-night,  to  see 
you  to-morrow." 

Lassigny,  then,  seemed  to  have  acted  with  correct- 
ness. But  that  he  should  have  done  so  did  not  remove 
any  objection  to  him  as  a  husband  for  Beatrix.  It  only 
made  it  rather  more  difficult  to  meet  him ;  for  Beatrix's 
father  would  not  be  upheld  by  justifiable  annoyance  at 
having  been  treated  with  disrespect. 

"  I'm  glad  he  didn't  come  down  with  you,"  he  said. 

"  I  wanted  him  to,"  she  said  simply.  "  But  he 
wouldn't.  He  said  you  might  not  like  it.  He  is  such 
a  dear,  Daddy.  He  thinks  of  everything.  I  do  love 
him."  She  got  up  and  stood  over  him  and  kissed  him. 
"  I  love  you  too,  darling,"  she  said,  "  more  than  ever. 
It  makes  you  love  everybody  you  do  love  more,  when 
this  happens  to  you." 

He  couldn't  face  it,  with  his  arm  round  her,  and  her 
soft  cheek  resting  confidently  against  his.  He  couldn't 
break  up  her  happiness  and  her  trust  there  and  then. 
Better  see  the  fellow  first.  By  some  miracle  he  might 
show  himself  worthy  of  her.  His  dislike  of  him  for  the 
moment  was  in  abeyance.  It  rested  on  nothing  that  he 
knew  of  him — only  on  what  he  had  divined. 

"  Well,"  he  said ;  "  we'd  better  go  to  bed  and  think 
it  all  over.     I'll  see  him  to-morrow." 

"  He's  coming  here  about  twelve,"  she  said,  releasing 
herself  as  he  stood  up.  "  If  you  are  in  the  City  I  can 
tell  him  to  go  down  and  see  you  at  the  Bank." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  will  see  him  here.  And  I  don't 
want  you  to  see  him  before  I  do,  B.    We've  got  to  begin 


LASSIGNY  205 

it  all  over  again,  in  the  proper  way.  That's  why  I 
made  you  come  here." 

His  slight  change  of  tone  caused  her  to  look  up  at 
him.  "  You're  not  going  to  ask  him  to  wait  for  me, 
are  you,  darling?"  she  asked.  "We  do  want  to  get 
married  soon.     We  do  love  each  other  awfully." 

He  kissed  her.  "  Run  along  to  bed,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
tell  you  what  I  have  decided  when  I've  seen  him  to- 
morrow." 

When  they  met  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  the 
atmosphere  had  hardened  a  little.  Beatrix  was  not  so 
affectionate  to  him  in  her  manner  as  she  had  been ;  it 
was  plain  that  she  was  not  thinking  of  him  much,  ex- 
cept in  his  connection  with  her  lover;  and  as  the  love 
she  had  shown  him  the  night  before  had  softened  him 
towards  the  whole  question,  so  now  the  absence  of  its 
signs  hardened  him.  Of  course  her  love  for  him  was 
nothing  in  comparison  with  this  new  love  of  hers !  He 
was  a  fool  to  have  let  it  influence  him.  If  he  had  been 
weak  enough  to  let  her  go  to  bed  thinking  that  he  would 
make  no  objection  to  her  eventual  engagement,  and 
only  formalities  stood  in  the  way,  it  would  be  all  the 
harder  for  her  when  she  knew  the  truth. 

"Have  you  had  a  letter  from  Rene.'"'  was  the  first 
question  she  asked  him  when  she  had  kissed  him  good- 
morning,  with  a  perfunctory  kiss  that  meant  she  was 
not  in  one  of  those  affectionate  moods  which  he  found 
it  so  impossible  to  resist. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I'm  going  down  to  the 
Bank  this  morning,  B.     I'll  see  him  there.     I've  told 


206  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

William  to  ask  him  to  come  on  to  the  City  when  he 
comes  here." 

"  Can't  I  see  him  first,  Dad,"  she  asked,  "  when  he 
comes  here?  " 

"  No,  darling.  Look  here,  B,  I  didn't  want  to  bother 
3'ou  last  night.  I  was  too  pleased  to  see  you  again. 
But  I  don't  want  you  to  marry  Lassigny.  I  don't  like 
the  idea  of  it  at  all." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  wide  open.  "  Why 
not.  Dad?  "  she  ask  d. 

"  I  hate  the  idea  of  your  marrying  a  Frenchman. 
I've  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  I  wouldn't  have 
asked  him  down  to  Abington  if  I  had." 

She  looked  down  on  her  plate,  and  then  looked  up 
again.  "  You're  not  going  to  tell  him  we  can't  be 
married,  are  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  tell  him.  I  want 
to  hear  what  he  has  to  say  first.    That's  only  fair." 

She  seemed  puzzled  more  than  distressed.  "  I  thought 
you  liked  him,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  you  only  didn't 
like  our  getting  engaged  before  he  had  spoken  to  you. 
You  did  like  him  at  Abington,  Dad ;  and  he  was  a  friend 
of  Caroline's  before  he  was  a  friend  of  mine.  You  didn't 
mind  that.  Why  don't  you  want  me  to  marry  him? 
I  love  him  awfully ;  and  he  loves  me." 

He  was  sorry  he  had  said  so  much.  He  hadn't  meant 
to  say  anything  before  his  interview  with  Lassigny. 
But  the  idea  that  by  a  miracle  Lassigny  might  prove 
himself  worthy  of  her  had  faded;  and  her  almost  in- 
diiFerence  towards  him  had  made  it  not  painful,  as  it 


LASSIGNY  207 

would  have  been  the  night  before,  to  throw  a  shadow 
over  her  expectations. 

"  You're  very  young,"  he  said.  "  In  any  case  I 
couldn't  let  you  marry  yet." 

"  I  was  afraid  you'd  say  that,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  Rene  said  you  wouldn't.  If  you  let  us  marry  at  all, 
there  would  be  no  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  married 
quite  soon.     How  long  should  we  have  to  wait.  Dad.''  " 

Her  submissiveness  touched  him  again.  "  I  don't 
know,  darling,"  he  said.  "  I  can't  say  anything  till 
I've  seen  him.  Don't  ask  me  any  more  questions  now. 
Look  here,  you'd  better  go  round  to  Hans  Place  this 
morning  and  stay  there  to  lunch.  Aunt  Mary's  in 
London,  I  know.  Go  round  early,  so  as  you  can  catch 
her.  I  shall  go  straight  to  the  station  from  the  City. 
Meet  me  for  the  4.50.    I'll  take  your  tickets." 

"  But  what  about  Rene.'*  "  she  asked.  "  Aren't  you 
going  to  let  him  see  me,  when  you've  talked  to  him  ?  " 

He  was  in  for  it  now.  His  tone  was  harder  than  he 
meant  it  to  be  as  he  said :  "  In  any  case,  B,  I'm  not 
going  to  let  him  see  you  for  six  months.  I've  made  up 
my  mind  about  that.  And  there's  to  be  no  engagement 
either.  He  won't  expect  that.  You  must  make  your- 
self happy  at  home." 

"  Daddy  darling !  "  Her  tone  was  one  of  pained  and 
surprised  expostulation.  She  seemed  such  a  child  as 
she  looked  at  him  out  of  her  wide  eyes  that  again  he 
recoiled  from  hurting  her. 

"  Six  months  is  nothing,"  he  said.  "  If  you  can't 
wait  six  months,  B " 


208  ABtNGTON  ABBEY 

He  couldn't  finish.  It  seemed  mean  to  give  her  to 
understand  that  this  would  be  his  sole  stipulation,  when 
he  was  going  to  do  all  he  could  to  stop  her  marr3ing 
Lassigny  at  all.    But  neither  could  he  tell  her  that. 

She  was  silent  for  a  time.  Then  she  said  with  a  deep 
sigh :  "  I  was  afraid  you'd  say  something  of  the  sort. 
You're  a  hard  old  Daddy.  But  I  made  up  my  mind 
coming  down  in  the  train  that  I  wouldn't  go  against 
you.  I  love  Rene  so  much  that  I  don't  mind  waiting  for 
him — if  it  isn't  too  long."  Another  little  pause,  and 
another  deep  sigh.  "  I've  been  frightfully  happy  the 
last  two  days.  But  somehow  I  didn't  think  it  could 
last — quite  like  that." 

She  saw  him  out  of  the  house  later  on.  As  she  put 
up  her  face  to  be  kissed,  she  said :  "  You  do  love  your 
little  daughter,  don't  you.''  You  won't  do  anything  to 
make  her  unhappy." 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  Sloane  Street  and  took  a 
taxi.  His  mind  was  greatly  disturbed.  B  had  be- 
haved beautifully.  She  had  bowed  to  his  decision  with 
hardly  a  word  of  protest,  and  he  knew  well  enough  by 
the  look  on  her  face  when  she  had  asked  him  her  last 
question  what  it  had  cost  her  to  do  so.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  take  refuge  in  the  thought  that  she  couldn't  love 
this  fellow  much,  if  she  resigned  herself  so  easily  to 
doing  without  him  for  six  months.  She  had  resigned 
out  of  love  for  her  father,  and  trust  in  him.  It  was 
beastly  to  feel  that  he  had  not  yet  told  her  everything, 
and  that  her  faith  in  him  not  to  make  her  unhappy — 
at  least  in  the  present — was  unfounded.     Again  he  felt 


LASSIGNY  209 

himself  undecided.  But  what  could  he  do?  How  was 
it  possible  that  she  could  judge  of  a  man  of  Lassigny's 
type.  Her  love  for  him  was  pure  and  innocent.  What 
was  his  love  for  her.'* 

Well,  he  would  find  that  out.  The  fellow  should 
have  his  chance.  He  would  not  take  it  for  granted 
that  he  had  just  taken  a  fancy — the  latest  of  many — 
to  a  pretty  face,  and  the  charm  and  freshness  of  a 
very  young  girl ;  and  since  she  happened  to  be  of  the 
sort  that  he  could  marry,  was  willing  to  gain  possession 
of  her  in  that  way. 

Lassigny  was  announced  a  little  after  twelve  o'clock. 
His  card  was  brought  in :  "  Marquis  de  Clermont- 
Lassigny,"  in  letters  of  print,  all  on  a  larger  scale 
than  English  orthodoxy  dictates.  His  card  was 
vaguely  distasteful  to  Grafton. 

But  when  he  went  in  to  him,  in  the  old-fashioned 
parlour  reserved  for  visitors,  he  could  not  have  told, 
if  he  had  not  known,  that  he  was  not  an  Englishman. 
His  clothes  were  exactly  '  right '  in  every  particular. 
His  dark  moustache  was  clipped  to  the  English  fashion. 
His  undoubted  good  looks  were  not  markedly  of  the 
Latin  type. 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  Lassigny  with  a  smile, 
Grafton  without  one. 

"  You  had  my  letter.?  "  Lassigny  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Grafton,  motioning  him  to  a  chair  and 
taking  one  himself. 

"  It  ought  to  have  been  written,"  said  Lassigny,  "  be- 
fore I  spoke  to  Beatrix.     But  I  trust  you  will  under- 


210  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

stand  it  was  not  from  want  of  respect  to  you  that  it 
wasn't.  I  have  come  now  to  ask  your  permission — to 
affiance  myself  to  your  daughter." 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't,"  said  Grafton,  looking  at  him 
with  a  half-smile.  He  couldn't  treat  this  man  whom  he 
had  last  seen  as  a  welcome  guest  in  his  own  house  as 
the  enemy  he  had  since  felt  him  to  be. 

Lassigny  made  a  slight  gesture  with  shoulders  and 
hands  that  was  not  English.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  she  is 
very  young,  and  you  don't  want  to  lose  her.  She  said 
you  would  feel  like  that.  I  shouldn't  want  to  lose  her 
myself  if  she  were  my  daughter.  But  I  hope  you  will 
give  her  to  me,  all  the  same.  I  did  not  concern  myself 
with  business  arrangements  in  my  letter,  but  my 
lawyers " 

"  Oh,  we  haven't  come  to  talking  about  lawyers  yet," 
Grafton  interrupted  him.  "  Look  here,  Lassigny ; 
Beatrix  is  hardly  more  than  a  child ;  you  ought  not  to 
have  made  love  to  her  without  at  least  coming  to  me 
first.  You  wouldn't  do  it  in  your  own  country,  you 
know." 

He  had  not  meant  to  say  that,  or  anything  like  it. 
But  it  was  very  difficult  to  know  what  to  say. 

"  In  my  own  country,"  said  Lassigny  " — but  you 
must  remember  that  I  am  only  half  French — one  makes 
love,  and  one  also  marries.  The  two  things  don't  of 
necessity  go  together.  But  I  have  know^n  England  for 
a  long  enough  time  to  prefer  the  English  way." 

This  was  exactly  the  opening  that  Grafton  wanted, 
but  had  hardly  expected  to  be  given  in  so  obvious  a  way. 


LASSIGNY  211 

"  Exactly  so !  "  he  said,  leaning  forward  a  little,  with 
his  arm  on  the  table  by  his  side.  "  You  marry  and  you 
make  love,  and  the  two  things  don't  go  together.  Well, 
with  us  they  do  go  together;  and  that's  why  I  won't 
let  my  daughters  marry  anybody  but  Englishmen,  if  I 
can  help  it." 

Lassigny  looked  merely  surprised.  "  But  what  do 
you  think /meant  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  love  Beatrix.  I  love 
her  with  the  utmost  respect.  I  pay  her  all  the  honour 
I  can  in  asking  her  to  be  my  wife." 

"And  how  many  women  have  you  loved  before?" 
asked  Grafton.  "  And  how  many  are  you  going  to  love 
afterwards  ?  " 

Lassigny  recoiled,  with  a  dark  flush  on  his  face. 
"  But  do  you  want  to  insult  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  Look  here,  Lassigny,"  said  Grafton  again.  "  We 
belong  to  two  different  nations.  I'm  not  going  to  pick 
my  words,  or  disguise  my  meaning,  out  of  compliment 
to  you.  It's  far  too  serious.  You  must  take  me  as  an 
Englishman.  You  know  enough  about  us  to  be  able 
to  do  it." 

"  Well !  "  said  Lassigny,  grudgingly,  after  a  pause. 
*'  You  asked  me  a  question.  You  asked  me  two  ques- 
tions. I  think  they  are  not  the  questions  that  one  gen- 
tleman ought  to  ask  of  another.  It  should  be  enough 
that  I  pay  honour  to  the  one  I  love.  My  name  is  old, 
and  has  dignity.     I  have " 

"  Oh,  we  needn't  go  into  that,"  Grafton  interrupted 
him.  "  We  treat  as  equals  there,  with  the  advantage 
on  your  side,  if  it's  anywhere." 


212  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  But,  pardon  me ;  we  must  go  into  it.  It  is  essen- 
tial. What  more  can  I  do  than  to  offer  my  honourable 
name  to  your  daughter.?  It  means  much  to  me.  If  I 
honour  it,  as  I  do,  I  honour  her." 

"  I  know  you  honour  her,  in  your  way.  It  isn't  our 
way.  I'll  ask  you  another  question  of  the  sort  you  say 
one  gentleman  ought  not  to  ask  of  another.  Should 
you  consider  it  dishonouring  your  name,  or  dishonour- 
ing the  woman  you've  given  it  to,  to  make  love  to  some- 
body else,  after  you've  been  married  a  year  or  two,  if 
the  fancy  takes  you  ?  " 

Lassigny  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Mr.  Grafton,"  he  said, 
"  I  don't  understand  you.  I  think  it  is  you  who  are 
dishonouring  your  own  daughter,  whom  I  love,  and 
shall  always  love." 

Grafton,  without  rising,  held  up  a  finger  at  him. 
"  How  am  I  dishonouring  her?  "  he  asked  with  insist- 
ence.   "  Tell  me  why  you  say  I'm  dishonouring  her." 

Lassigny  looked  down  at  him.  "  To  me,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  she  is  the  most  beautiful  and  the  sweetest  girl 
on  the  earth.  Don't  you  think  so  too.-^  I  thought  you 
did." 

Grafton  rose.  "  You've  said  it ;  it's  her  beauty,"  he 
said  more  quickly.  "  If  she  loses  that, — as  she  will 
lose  it  with  her  youth, — she  loses  you.  I'm  not  going 
to  let  her  in  for  that  kind  of  disillusionment." 

Lassigny  was  very  stiff  now,  and  entirely  un-English 
in  manner,  and  even  in  appearance.  "  Pardon  me,  Mr. 
Grafton,  for  having  misunderstood  your  point  of 
view.     If  it  is  a  Puritan  you  want  for  your  daughter 


LASSIGNY  213 

I  fear  I  am  out  of  the  running.  I  withdraw  my  appli- 
cation to  you  for  her  hand." 

"  That's  another  thing,"  said  Grafton,  as  Lassigny 
turned  to  leave  him.  "  I  wouldn't  let  a  daughter  of 
mine  marry  a  Catholic." 

Lassigny  went  out,  without  another  word. 


CHAPTER     XV 

BEATRIX  COMES  HOME 

Beatrix  and  her  maid  were  already  at  the  station  when 
Grafton  arrived.  He  had  only  allowed  himself  ten 
minutes,  and  was  busy  getting  tickets,  finding  a  car- 
riage and  buying  papers,  until  it  was  nearly  time  for 
the  train  to  start.  Then  he  found  somebody  to  talk 
to,  and  only  joined  Beatrix  at  the  last  moment. 

She  had  given  him  rather  a  pathetic  look  of  enquiry 
when  he  had  first  come  up  to  them  waiting  for  him  in 
the  booking-office.  Now  she  sat  in  her  corner  of  the 
carriage,  very  quiet.    They  were  alone  together. 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  and  took  her  hand  in 
his.  "  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  he  isn't  the  right  man 
for  you.     You  must  forget  him." 

She  left  her  hand  lying  in  his,  inertly.  Her  eyes 
were  wide  and  her  face  pale  as  she  asked :  "  Have  you 
told  him  he  can't  marry  me  at  all  ?  " 

He  changed  his  seat  to  one  beside  her.  "  B  darling," 
he  said,  "  you  know  I  wouldn't  hurt  you  if  I  could 
help  it.  I  hated  the  idea  of  it  so  much  last  night  that 
I  couldn't  tell  you,  as  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  done, 
that  I  didn't  think  you'd  see  him  again.  I  wasn't  quite 
sure.  He  might  have  been  different  from  what  I 
thought  him.  But  he  isn't  the  husband  for  a  girl  like 
you,  darling.    He  made  that  quite  plain." 

214 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  215 

Her  hands  lay  in  her  lap,  and  she  was  looking  out 
of  the  window.  "  Did  you  send  him  away?  "  she  asked, 
turning  her  head  towards  him.  "  Isn't  he  going  to  see 
me  again — or  write  to  me.'*  " 

"  He  won't  see  you  again.  I  didn't  tell  him  he  wasn't 
to  write  to  you,  but  I  don't  think  he  will;  I  hope  he 
won't.  It's  no  good,  darling.  The  break  has  come ;  it 
must  make  you  very  unhappy  for  a  time,  I  know  that, 
my  dear  little  girl.  But  I  hope  it  won't  be  for  long. 
We  all  love  you  dearly  at  home,  you  know.  We  shall 
make  it  up  to  you  in  time." 

He  felt,  as  he  said  this,  how  entirely  devoid  of  com- 
fort such  words  must  be  to  her.  The  love  of  those 
nearest  to  her,  which  had  been  all-sufficing,  would  count 
as  nothing  in  the  balance  against  the  new  love  that  she 
wanted.  She  had  told  him  the  night  before  that  the 
new  love  heightened  and  increased  the  old;  and  so  it 
would,  as  long  as  he,  who  had  hitherto  come  first  with 
her,  stepped  willingly  down  from  that  eminence,  and 
added  his  tribute  to  hers.  Opposition  instead  of  tribute 
would  wipe  out,  for  the  time  at  least,  all  that  she  had 
felt  for  him  during  all  the  years  of  her  life.  The  cur- 
rent of  all  her  love  was  pouring  into  the  new  channel 
that  had  been  opened  up.  There  would  be  none  to  water 
the  old  channels,  unless  they  led  into  the  new  one. 

She  turned  to  him  again.  There  was  a  look  in  her 
face  that  he  had  never  seen  there  before,  and  it  struck 
through  to  his  heart.  It  was  the  dawning  of  hostility, 
which  put  her  apart  from  him  as  nothing  else  could 
have  done;  for  it  meant  that  there  were  tracts  in  her 


216  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

as  yet  unexplored,  and  perhaps  unsuspected,  and  there 
was  no  knowing  what  arid  spaces  he  would  have  to 
traverse  in  them.  "  I  can't  understand  it  at  all,"  she 
said  quietly.  "  Why  did  you  send  him  away,  and  why 
did  he  go?  I  know  he  loves  me;  and  he  knows  I  love 
him,  and  forgive  him  anything  that  was  wrong.  What 
is  wrong?    You  ought  to  tell  me  that." 

He  stirred  uneasily  in  his  seat.  How  could  he  tell 
her  what  was  wrong?  She  was  so  innocent  of  evil.  If 
he  felt,  as  he  did,  that  Lassigny's  desire  for  her  touched 
her  with  it,  he  had  diverted  that  from  her.  He  couldn't 
plunge  her  into  it  again  by  explanations  that  would 
only  justify  himself. 

"  Darling  child,"  he  said.  "  It's  all  wrong.  You 
must  trust  me  to  know.  I've  made  no  mistake.  If  he 
had  been  what  the  man  who  marries  you  must  be  he 
wouldn't  have  gone  away  from  me  as  he  did,  in  offence. 
He'd  have  justified  himself,  or  tried  to.  And  I'd  have 
listened  to  him  too.  As  it  was,  I  don't  think  we  were 
together  for  ten  minutes.  He  gave  you  up,  B.  He  was 
offended,  and  he  gave  you  up — before  I  had  asked  him 
to.    Yes,  certainly  before  I  had  said  anything  final." 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  again.  "  I  wish  I  knew 
what  had  happened,"  she  said  as  quietly  as  before.  *'  I 
can't  understand  his  giving  me  up — of  his  own  free 
will.     I  wish  I  knew  what  you  had  said  to  him." 

This  hardened  him  a  little.  He  did  not  want  to  make 
too  much  of  Lassigny's  having  so  easily  given  up  his 
claims.  He  was  not  yet  sure  that  he  had  entirely  given 
them  up.    But,  at  any  rate,  the  offence  to  his  pride  had 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  217 

been  enough  to  have  caused  him  to  do  so  unconditionally 
for  the  time  being.  Beatrix  had  been  given  up  for 
it  without  a  struggle  to  retain  her,  and  it  was  not  Bea- 
trix's father  who  had  made  any  conditions  as  to  his 
seeing  her  or  writing  to  her  again,  or  had  needed  to  do 
so.  Yet  she  would  not  accept  it,  that  the  renunciation 
could  have  been  on  the  part  of  the  man  whom  she  hardly 
knew.  It  must  have  been  some  injustice  or  harshness 
on  his  part,  from  whom  she  had  had  nothing  but  love 
all  her  life. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  what  I  said  to  him,  or  what  he 
said  to  me,"  he  answered  her.  "  If  he  had  been  the 
right  sort  of  man  for  you  nothing  that  I  said  to  him 
would  have  caused  him  offence.  He  took  offence,  and 
withdrew.  You  must  accept  that,  B  darling.  I  didn't, 
actually,  send  him  away.  I  shouldn't  have  sent  him 
away,  if  he  had  justified  himself  to  me  in  any  degree. 
You  know  how  much  I  love  you,  don't  you  ?  Surely  you 
can  trust  me  a  little.?" 

He  put  his  hand  out  to  take  hers,  in  a  way  that  she 
had  never  yet  failed  to  respond  to.  But  she  did  not 
take  it.  It  wasn't,  apparently,  of  the  least  interest 
to  her  to  be  told  how  much  he  loved  her.  There  was  no 
comfort  at  all  in  that,  to  her  who  had  so  often  shown 
herself  hungry  for  the  caresses  that  showed  his  love. 

She  sat  still,  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  saying 
nothing  for  a  long  time.  He  said  nothing  either,  but 
took  up  one  of  the  papers  he  had  bought.  He  made 
himself  read  it  with  attention,  and  succeeded  in  taking 
in  what  he  read  after  a  few  attempts.    His  heart  was 


218  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

heavy  enough;  there  Avould  be  a  great  deal  more  to  go 
through  yet  before  there  could  be  any  return  to  the  old 
conditions  of  affection  and  contentment  between  him 
and  this  dear  hurt  child  of  his.  But  all  had  been  said 
that  could  profitably  be  said.  It  would  be  much  better 
to  put  it  aside  now,  and  act  as  if  it  were  not  there,  as 
far  as  it  was  possible,  and  encourage  her  to  do  so. 

She  was  strangely  quiet,  sitting  there  half-turned 
away  from  him  with  her  eyes  always  fixed  upon  the  sum- 
mer landscape  now  flowing  steadily  past  them ;  and  yet 
she  was,  by  temperament,  more  emotional  than  any  of 
his  children.  None  of  them  had  ever  cried  much — they 
had  had  very  little  in  their  lives  to  cry  about — but 
Beatrix  had  been  more  easily  moved  to  tears  than  the 
others.  She  might  have  been  expected  to  cry  over  what 
she  was  feeling  now.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  begin  to  get 
over  the  blow  that  had  been  dealt  her  until  she  did  cry. 

He  felt  an  immense  pity  and  tenderness  for  her,  sit- 
ting there  as  still  as  a  mouse.  He  would  have  liked  to 
put  his  arm  around  her  and  draw  her  to  him,  and 
soothe  her  trouble,  which  she  should  have  sobbed  out 
on  his  shoulder  as  she  had  done  with  the  little  troubles 
of  her  childhood.  But  that  unknown  quantity  in  her 
restrained  him.  He  knew  instinctively  that  she  would 
reject  him  as  the  consoler  of  this  trouble.  He  was  the 
cause  of  it  in  her  poor  wounded  groping  little  mind. 

Presently  she  roused  herself  and  took  up  an  illus- 
trated paper,  which  she  glanced  through,  saying  as  she 
did  so,  in  a  colourless  voice :  "  Shall  we  be  able  to  get 
some  tea  at  Ganton.''     I've  got  rathex  a  headache." 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  219 

"  Have  you,  my  darling?  "  he  said  tenderly.  "  Yes, 
we  shall  have  five  minutes  there.  Haven't  you  any 
phenacetin  in  your  bag?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
take  some  when  I  get  home,  if  it's  worse." 

"  Give  me  a  kiss,  my  little  B,"  he  said.  "  You  do 
love  your  old  Daddy,  don't  you?  " 

She  kissed  him  obediently.  "  Yes,  of  course,"  she 
said,  and  returned  to  her  paper. 

They  spoke  little  after  that  until  they  reached  the 
station  for  Abington.  If  he  said  anything  she  replied 
to  it,  and  sometimes  she  made  a  remark  herself.  But 
there  was  never  anything  like  conversation  between 
them.  He  was  in  deep  trouble  about  her  all  the  time, 
and  could  never  afterwards  look  out  on  certain  land- 
marks of  that  journey  without  inwardly  flinching.  He 
would  not  try  to  comfort  her  again.  He  knew  that 
was  beyond  his  power.  She  must  get  used  to  it  first ;  and 
nobody  could  help  her.  And  he  would  not  bother  her 
by  talking;  just  a  few  words  now  and  then  were  as 
necessary  to  her  as  to  him. 

Only  Caroline  had  come  to  meet  them.  Beatrix  clung 
to  her  a  little  as  she  kissed  her,  but  that  was  all  the 
sign  she  made,  and  she  exerted  herself  a  little  more 
than  she  had  done  to  talk  naturally,  until  they  reached 
home. 

Barbara  and  Bunting  were  in  front  of  the  house  as 
they  came  up.  After  a  sharp  glance  at  her  and  their 
father,  they  greeted  her  with  the  usual  affection  that 
this  family  habitually  showed  to  one  another,  and  both 


220  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

said  that  they  were  glad  to  see  her  home  again,  as  if 
they  meant  it.  Miss  Waterhouse  was  behind  them, 
and  said :  "  You  look  pale,  B  darling.  Hadn't  you 
better  go  straight  to  your  room  and  lie  down?  " 

She  went  upstairs  with  her.  Barbara  and  Bunting, 
with  a  glance  at  one  another,  took  themselves  off.  Caro- 
line followed  her  father  into  the  library. 

"  It's  all  over,"  he  said  shortly.  "  I  saw  him  this 
morning.  He's  what  I  thought  he  was.  She's  well  rid 
of  him,  poor  child.  But,  of  course,  she's  taking  it  very 
hard.  You  must  look  after  her,  darling.  I  can't  do 
anything  for  her  yet.     She's  closed  up  against  me." 

"  Poor  old  Daddy,"  said  Caroline,  feeling  in  her  sen- 
sitive fibre  the  hurt  in  him.  "  Was  it  very  difficult 
for  you.''  " 

"  It  wasn't  difficult  to  get  rid  of  him,"  he  said.  "  I 
didn't  have  to.  He  retired  of  his  own  accord.  Whether 
he'll  think  better  of  his  offence  and  try  to  come  back 
again  I  don't  know.  But  my  mind's  quite  made  up 
about  him.  However  she  feels  about  it  I'm  not  going 
to  give  her  to  a  man  like  that.  She'll  thank  me  for  it 
by  and  by.  Or  if  she  doesn't  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  not 
going  through  this  for  my  own  sake." 

She  asked  him  a  few  questions  as  to  how  Beatrix  had 
carried  herself,  and  then  she  went  up  to  her. 

Beatrix  was  undressing,  and  crying  softly.  She  had 
sent  Miss  Waterhouse  away,  saying  that  she  was 
coming  down  to  dinner,  and  it  was  time  to  dress.  But 
when  she  had  left  her  she  had  broken  down,  and  decided 
to  go  to  bed. 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  221 

She  threw  herself  into  Caroline's  arms,  and  cried  as 
if  her  heart  would  break.  Caroline  said  nothing  until 
the  storm  had  subsided  a  little,  which  it  did  very  soon. 
"  I  can't  help  crying — just  once,"  she  said.  "  But  I'm 
not  going  to  let  myself  be  like  that.  Why  does  he 
make  me  so  unhappy?    I  thought  he  loved  me." 

Caroline  thought  she  meant  Lassigny.  All  that  she 
had  been  told  was  that  he  had  given  her  up.  For- 
tunately she  did  not  answer  before  Beatrix  said :  "  He 
won't  tell  me  what's  wrong,  and  what  he  said  to  him, 
to  make  him  go  away.  Oh,  it's  very  cruel.  I  do  love 
him,  and  I  shall  never  love  anybody  else.  And  we  were 
so  happy  together.  And  now  he  comes  in  and  spoils 
it  all.    I  shall  never  see  him  again ;  he  said  so." 

Caroline  had  no  difficulty  now  in  disengaging  the  per- 
sonalities of  the  various  '  he's  '  and  *  him's.' 

"  Daddy's  awfully  sad  about  it,  B,"  she  said.  "  You 
know  he  couldn't  be  cruel  to  any  of  us." 

"  He's  been  cruel  to  me,"  said  Beatrix.  "  I  came  down 
when  he  told  me  to,  although  I  didn't  want  to,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  if  he  wanted  us  to  put  it  off, 
even  for  as  long  as  a  year,  I  would  ask  Rene  to,  be- 
cause I  did  love  him  and  wanted  to  please  him.  And 
he  was  all  right  about  it  last  night — and  yet  all  the 
time  he  meant  to  do  this.  I  call  that  cruel.  And  what 
has  my  poor  Rene  done.''  He  won't  tell  me.  Has  he 
told  you.'' " 

"  I  don't  think  it's  anything  that  he's  done,"  said 
Caroline  slowly.     "  He  sa3^s  he  isn't " 

"  Oh,  I  know,"   said  Beatrix,  breaking  in   on   her. 


222  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  He  isn't  a  fit  husband  for  me.  He  told  me  that.  How 
does  he  know?  He  says  he  only  talked  to  him  for  ten 
minutes,  and  then  he  said  something  that  made  him 
go  away.  Oh,  why  did  he  go  away  like  that.''  He  does 
love  me,  I  know.  Isn't  he  ever  going  to  try  to  see 
me  again,  or  even  to  write  to  me,  to  say  good-bye.''  " 

Caroline's  heart  was  torn,  but  she  couldn't  merely 
soothe  and  sympathise  with  her.  "  It's  frightfully  hard 
for  you,  darling,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  But  he  wouldn't 
just  have  gone  away  and  given  you  up — M.  de  Las- 
signy,  I  mean — if  Daddy  hadn't  been  right  about  him." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  you  take  his  side !  "  said  Beatrix. 
"  I  trusted  him  too,  and  he's  been  cruel  to  me." 

Caroline  helped  her  to  bed.  Her  heart  was  heavy, 
both  for  Beatrix  and  for  her  father.  She  tried  no 
more  to  defend  him.  It  was  of  no  use  at  present.  Bea- 
trix must  work  that  out  for  herself.  At  present  she 
was  more  in  need  of  consolation  than  he  was,  and  she 
tried  her  best  to  give  it  to  her.  But  that  was  of  little 
use  either.  Her  grievance  against  her  father  was  now 
rising  to  resentment.  As  she  poured  out  her  trouble, 
which  after  all  did  give  her  some  relief,  although  she 
was  unaware  of  it,  Caroline  could  only  say,  "  Oh,  no,  B 
darling,  you  mustn't  say  that  ";  or,  "You  know  how 
much  he  loves  you;  he  must  be  right  about  it."  But 
in  the  end  she  was  a  little  shaken  in  her  own  faith.  She 
thought  that  Beatrix  ought  to  have  known  more.  She 
would  have  wanted  to  know  more  herself,  if  she  had 
been  in  her  place. 

Later  on  in  the  evening  she  and  Miss  Waterhouse  sat 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  223 

with  him  in  the  library,  to  which  he  had  taken  himself 
instinctively  after  dinner,  as  the  room  of  the  master 
of  the  house.  Caroline  had  told  him,  what  there  was 
no  use  in  keeping  back,  that  Beatrix  thought  he  had 
been  unjust  to  her,  and  he  was  very  unhappy. 

He  talked  up  and  down  about  it  for  some  time,  and 
then  said,  with  a  reversion  to  the  direct  speech  that  was 
more  characteristic  of  him :  "  She's  bound  to  think  I've 
been  unjust  to  her,  I  suppose.    Do  you  think  so  too?  " 

Miss  Waterhouse  did  not  reply.  Caroline  said,  after 
a  short  pause :  "  I  think  if  I  were  B  I  should  want  to 
know  why  you  thought  he  wasn't  fit  for  me.  If  it's 
anything  that  he's  done " 

"  It's  the  way  he  and  men  like  him  look  upon  mar- 
riage," he  said.  "  I  can't  go  into  details — I  really 
can't,  either  to  you  or  her." 

"  But  if  he  loves  her  very  much — mightn't  it  be  all 
right  with  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  might,"  he  answered  without  any  hesitation. 
"  If  he  loved  her  in  the  right  way." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  he  doesn't,  darling?  If  he  had 
a  chance  of  proving  it !  " 

"  He  hasn't  asked  for  the  chance." 

"  It  really  comes  back  to  that,"  said  Miss  Water- 
house,  speaking  almost  for  the  first  time.  "  You  would 
not  have  refused  him  his  chance,  if  he  had  asked  for 
it?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  think  I  should.  If  he  had 
said  that  his  loving  Beatrix  made  things  different  to 
him — if  he'd  shown  in  any  way  that  they  were  different 


224  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

to  him — I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done.  It 
certainly  wouldn't  have  ended  as  it  did." 

"  Well,  Cara  dear,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse,  "  I  think 
the  thing  to  say  is  that  M.  de  Lassigny  was  not  pre- 
pared to  satisfy  your  father  that  he  even  wanted  to  be 
what  he  thought  B's  husband  ought  to  be.  If  he  had 
gone  ever  such  a  little  way  he  would  have  had  his 
chance." 

"  It  is  he  who  has  given  her  up.  I  know  that,"  said 
Caroline.  "  You  didn't  really  send  him  away  at  all, 
did  you.''  Oh,  I'm  sure  you  must  have  been  right  about 
him.  I  liked  him,  you  know;  but — He  can't  love  B 
very  much,  I  should  think,  if  he  was  willing  to  give 
her  up  like  that,  at  once." 

That  was  the  question  upon  which  the  unhappy  clash 
of  interests  turned  during  the  days  that  followed. 
Beatrix  knew  that  he  loved  her.  How  could  she  make 
a  mistake  about  that.?  She  turned  a  little  from  Caro- 
line, who  was  very  loving  to  her  but  would  not  put  her- 
self unreservedly  on  her  side,  and  poured  out  all  her 
griefs  to  Barbara,  and  also  to  Mollie  Walter.  Bar- 
bara, not  feeling  herself  capable  of  pronouncing  upon 
anything  on  her  own  initiative,  took  frequent  counsel 
of  Miss  Waterhouse,  who  advised  her  to  be  as  sweet  to 
B  as  possible,  but  not  to  admit  that  their  father  could 
have  been  wrong  in  the  way  he  had  acted.  "  There  is 
no  need  to  say  that  M.  de  Lassigny  was,"  she  said. 
"  Poor  B  will  see  that  for  herself  in  time." 

Poor  B  was  quite  incapable  of  seeing  anything  of 
the  sort  at  present.     She  was  also  deeply  offended  at 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  225 

any  expression  of  the  supposition  that  she  would  '  get 
over  it ' — as  if  it  were  an  attack  of  measles.  She  told 
Mollie,  who  gave  her  actually  more  of  the  sympathy 
that  she  wanted  than  any  of  her  own  family,  that  she 
couldn't  understand  her  father  taking  this  light  view 
of  love.  She  would  have  thought  he  understood  such 
things  better.  She  would  never  love  anybody  but  Rene, 
even  if  they  did  succeed  in  keeping  them  apart^  all  their 
lives.    And  she  knew  he  would  love  her  in  the  same  way." 

There  was,  however,  no  getting  over  the  fact  that 
Rene,  when  he  had  walked  out  of  the  Bank  parlour,  in 
offence,  had  walked  out  of  his  matrimonial  intentions 
at  the  same  time.  The  fashionable  intelligence  depart- 
ment announced  his  intention  of  spending  the  autumn 
at  his  Chateau  in  Picardy,  and  there  was  some  reason 
to  suppose  that  the  announcement,  not  usual  in  the 
way  it  was  given,  might  be  taken  as  indicating  to 
those  who  had  thought  of  him  as  taking  an  English 
bride  that  his  intentions  in  that  respect  had  been 
relinquished. 

Grafton  was  rather  surprised  at  having  got  rid  of 
him  so  easily,  and  inclined  to  question  himself  as  to  the 
way  in  which  he  had  done  it.  He  told  Worthing  of  all 
that  had  passed,  and  Worthing's  uncomplicated  opin- 
ion was  that  the  fellow  must  have  been  an  out  and  out 
wrong  'un. 

"  I  don't  say  that,"  Grafton  said.  "  He  was  in  love 
with  B  in  the  way  that  a  fellow  of  that  sort  falls  in 
love.  Probably  she'd  have  been  very  happy  with  him 
for  a  time.     But  she  wouldn't  have  known  how  to  hold 


226  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

him — wouldn't  have  known  that  she  had  to,  poor  child. 
I'm  precious  glad  she's  preserved  from  it.  You  know, 
Worthing,  I  couldn't  have  stopped  it  if  he'd  said — ^like 
an  English  fellow  might  have  done — a  fellow  who  had 
gone  the  pace — that  all  that  was  over  for  good;  he 
wanted  to  make  himself  fit  for  a  girl  like  B — something 
of  that  sort.  Many  a  fellow  has  been  made  by  loving 
a  good  innocent  girl,  and  marrying.  B  could  have 
done  that  for  him,  if  he'd  been  the  right  sort — and 
wanted  it." 

"  I  bet  she  could,"  said  Worthing  loyally.  "  It's 
hard  luck  she  should  have  set  her  heart  on  a  wrong 
'un.  They  can't  tell  the  difference,  I  suppose — girls, 
I  mean.  I  don't  know  much  about  'em,  but  I've  learnt 
a  good  deal  since  I've  got  to  know  yours.  It  makes  you 
feel  different  about  all  that  sort  of  game.  It's  made 
me  wish  sometimes  that  I'd  married  myself,  before  I 
got  too  old  for  it.  What  I  can't  quite  understand  is 
its  not  affecting  this  fellow  in  the  same  sort  of  way. 
I  don't  understand  his  not  making  a  struggle  for  her." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it's  as  he  said  to  me — what  annoyed 
me  so — that  marriage  is  a  thing  apart  with  him  and 
his  like.  He's  got  plenty  to  offer  in  marriage,  and  it 
would  probably  annoy  him  much  more  than  it  would  an 
Englishman  in  the  same  sort  of  position  as  his,  to  be 
turned  down.  He  may  have  been  sorry  that  he'd  cut 
it  off  himself  so  decisively,  but  his  pride  wouldn't  let 
him  do  anything  to  recover  his  ground.  That's  what 
I  think  has  happened." 

"Well,  but  what  about  his  being  in  love  with  her.'* 


BEATRIX  COMES  HOME  227 

That'd  count  a  good  deal  with  a  girl  like  her,  I  should 
say — Frenchman  or  no  Frenchman." 

"  He's  been  in  love  plenty  of  times  before.  He  knows 
how  easy  it  is  to  get  over,  if  she  doesn't — the  sort  of 
love  he's  likely  to  have  felt  for  her.  It  might  have 
turned  into  something  more,  if  he'd  known  her  longer. 
Perhaps  he  didn't  know  that ;  they  don't  know  every- 
thing about  love — the  sensualists — though  tliey  think 
they  do.  She  hadn't  had  time  to  make  much  impres- 
sion on  him — just  a  very  pretty  bright  child ;  I  think 
he'd  have  got  tired  of  her  in  no  time,  sweet  as  she  is. 
Oh,  I'm  thankful  we've  got  rid  of  him.  I've  never  done 
a  better  thing  in  my  life  than  when  I  stopped  it.  But 
I'm  not  having  a  happy  time  about  it  at  present, 
Worthing.     No  more  is  my  little  B." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

CLOUDS 

The  fact  that  Lassigny's  proposal  to  Beatrix  and  her 
acceptance  of  it  had  taken  place  in  a  houseful  of  peo- 
ple made  it  impossible  to  keep  the  affair  a  family  secret. 
Reminders  of  its  being  known  soon  began  to  disturb  the 
quietude  of  Abington  Abbey. 

Grafton  went  up  to  the  Bank  a  few  days  after  he  had 
brought  Beatrix  down,  and  his  sister-in-law  called  upon 
him  there  and  asked  to  be  taken  out  to  luncheon.  She 
had  come  up  from  the  country  on  purpose  and  wanted 
to  hear  all  about  it. 

Grafton  was  seriously  annoyed.  "  My  dear  Mary," 
he  said  politely,  "  it  can  only  be  a  pleasure  to  take  you 
out  to  lunch  at  any  time,  and  in  half  an  hour  I  shall 
be  ready  to  take  you  to  the  Berkeley,  or  wherever  you'd 
like  to  go  to.  Will  you  make  yourself  comfortable  with 
the  paper  in  the  meantime?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  you're  furious  with  me  for  having  come 
here,  George,"  she  said,  "  and  it's  quite  true  I've  never 
done  it  before.  But  I  must  talk  to  you,  and  when  James 
said  you  were  coming  up  to-day  I  knew  it  was  the  only 
way  of  getting  you.  You'd  have  put  me  off  politely — 
you're  always  polite — if  I'd  telephoned.  So  please  for- 
give me,  and  go  back  to  your  work  till  you're  ready. 

228 


CLOUDS  229 

I'll  write  a  letter  or  two.  I  shall  love  to  do  it  on  the 
Bank  paper." 

He  came  back  for  her  in  less  than  the  half-hour. 
She  had  her  car  waiting,  and  directly  they  had  settled 
themselves  in  it  he  said :  "  Now  look  here,  Mary,  I'm 
glad  you've  come,  after  all.  I'll  tell  you  exactly  what 
has  happened  and  you  can  tell  other  people.  There's 
no  mystery  and  there's  nothing  to  hide.  Lassigny 
asked  B  to  marry  him  in  the  way  you've  heard  of. 
When  he  came  here  to  talk  it  over  with  me  I  put  one 
or  two  questions  to  him  which  offended  him,  and  he  with- 
drew.   That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"  I  don't  think  it's  quite  enough,  George,"  she  re- 
plied at  once.  "  People  are  talking.  I've  had  one  or 
two  letters  already.  It's  hard  on  poor  little  B  too. 
She  doesn't  understand  it,  and  it's  making  her  very 
miserable." 

"  Has  she  written  to  you  about  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  she  has.  You  sent  her  to  me  while  you 
vrere  getting  rid  of  her  lover  for  her,  and  she  had  to 
write  and  tell  me  what  had  happened.  It  isn't  like  you 
to  play  the  tyrant  to  your  children,  George ;  but  really 
you  do  seem  to  have  done  it  here.  She  won't  forgive 
you,  you  know." 

That  was  Lady  Grafton's  attitude  at  the  beginning 
of  the  hour  or  so  they  spent  together,  and  it  was  her 
attitude  at  the  end  of  it.  He  had  gone  further  in 
self-defence  than  he  had  had  any  intention  of  going, 
but  all  she  had  said  was :  "  Well,  I  know  you  think 
you're  right,  but  honestly  I  don't,  George.     Constance 


230  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Ardrishaig  wrote  to  me  about  it  and  said  that  they 
were  perfectly  delightful  together.  He  thought  the 
world  of  her,  and  everybody  knows  that  when  a  man 
does  fall  in  love  with  a  thoroughly  nice  girl  it  alters 
him — if  he's  been  what  he  ought  to  have  been." 

Travelling  down  in  the  train  Grafton  found  himself 
embarked  upon  that  disturbing  exercise  of  going  over 
a  discussion  again  and  mending  one's  own  side  of  it. 
Mary  ought  to  have  been  able  to  see  it.  She  had  used 
some  absurd  arguments ;  if  he  had  answered  her  in  this 
way  or  that,  she  would  have  been  silenced.  Or  better 
still,  if  he  had  refused  to  discuss  the  matter  at  all,  and 
rested  himself  upon  the  final  fact  that  it  was  Lassigny 
who  had  withdrawn;  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  She 
had,  actually,  seemed  to  realise  that  there  was  an  end 
of  it.  She  didn't  suggest  that  anj'thing  should  be  done. 
He  rather  gathered  that  Lady  Ardrishaig  had  some 
intention  of  writing  to  Lassigny  and  trying  to  '  bring 
it  on  again.'  Mary  had  seemed  to  hint  at  that,  but 
had  denied  any  such  idea  when  he  had  asked  her  if  it 
was  so.  She  had  been  cleverer  at  holding  him  aloof 
than  he  had  been  in  holding  her.  If  there  was  anything 
that  could  be  done,  by  these  kind  ladies  who  knew  so 
much  better  what  was  for  his  daughter's  welfare  than 
he  did,  it  would  be  done  behind  his  back. 

Beatrix  met  him  at  the  station.  When  they  were  in 
the  car  together  she  snuggled  up  to  him  and  said: 
"  Did  you  see  Aunt  Mary,  darling.''  " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  used  an  endearing  ex- 
pression to  him  since  he  had  brought  her  home.     He 


CLOUDS  231 

had  experienced  a  great  lift  of  spirit  when  he  had 
seen  her  waiting  for  him  on  the  platform,  looking  once 
again  like  her  old  self,  and  she  had  kissed  him  and 
taken  his  arm  as  they  went  out  to  the  car.  But  now 
his  heart  sank  like  lead.  "  Yes,  I  saw  her,"  he  said 
shortly. 

That  was  all.  Beatrix  gradually  withdrew  herself 
from  her  warm  contact  with  him,  and  spoke  of  surface 
matters  in  the  lifeless  voice  she  now  habitually  used 
towards  him.  It  was  plain  to  him  that  Lady  Grafton 
had  given  her  to  understand  that  she  was  going  to  do 
something  to  help  her.  He  had  not  understood  that 
there  had  been  a  correspondence  between  them. 

He  complained  of  it  to  Caroline.  "  I  suppose  she 
wrote  and  asked  Aunt  Mary  to  see  me,"  he  said.  "  I 
don't  like  it  at  all.  Hasn't  she  got  any  love  for  me 
left?  She  was  just  like  she  always  has  been  for  a  few 
minutes,  while  she  thought  something  might  have  hap- 
pened. But  it  wasn't  really  for  me.  It's  all  that  fel- 
low,— and  he  doesn't  want  her  any  more." 

Caroline  spoke  to  Beatrix.  "  You're  making  Dad 
awfully  unhappy,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  he's  making  me  awfully  unhappy,"  said  Bea- 
trix, without  waiting  for  anything  further.  "  He  wants 
me  to  love  him,  and  of  course  I  do.  But  I  simply  can't 
make  a  fuss  of  him,  when  he's  behaving  so  unfairly. 
Everybody  sympathises  with  me,  except  him.  And  no- 
body can  see  any  reason  for  his  sending  Rene  away, 
as  he  did." 

It  was  true  that  most  people  who  knew  about  it  did 


232  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

sympathise  with  Beatrix.  She  received  letters,  and 
wrote  letters.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
Grafton  family  letters  that  arrived  were  not  common 
property.  No  one  asked  Beatrix  whom  hers  were  from, 
if  they  came  at  breakfast-time,  nor  did  she  volunteer 
the  information,  though  sometimes  she  showed  them  to 
Caroline  afterwards. 

The  neighbours  knew  the  story.  It  annoyed  Grafton 
when  he  first  realised  that  it  was  a  matter  of  common 
talk.  The  information  came  to  him  from  Lady  Man- 
sergh,  of  all  people  in  the  world. 

Lady  Mansergh  was  of  an  earlier  generation  of  stage 
beauties  than  those  who  now  so  admirably  play  their 
titled  parts.  She  was  obviously  and  frankly  '  common.' 
No  one  who  knew  her  could  have  thrown  doubt  upon  the 
genuine  gold  of  her  heart,  whatever  they  may  have 
thought  of  that  of  her  head,  but  it  had  needed  all  of  it 
to  reconcile  Grafton  to  seeing  his  girls  made  much  of 
by  the  stout  affectionate  lady,  who  had  taken  them  all 
to  her  ample  bosom  from  the  first.  He  had,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  been  nearer  to  the  Vicar's  opinion,  that 
Lady  Mansergh  was  not  a  person  for  them  to  become 
intimate  with,  than  to  Worthing's,  that  she  was  '  per- 
fectly all  right,  and  couldn't  possibly  do  them  any 
harm.'  He  had  even  talked  to  Miss  Waterhouse  about 
it,  but  somewhat  to  his  surprise  she  had  not  advised 
any  standing  oflF  in  whatever  relationship  the  proximity 
of  the  two  houses  might  bring  about.  "  Whatever  is 
odd  about  her  they  laugh  at,"  she  said.  "  It  makes 
no  more  impression  on  them  than  that.     She  is  a  good- 


CLOUDS  233 

hearted  woman,  and  it  is  their  innocence  and  brif^htncss 
that  she  loves  in  them.  She  would  never  do  or  say 
anything  that  could  offend  them. 

So  Lady  Mansergh  drove  over  occasionally  to  the 
Abbey  to  sec  her  pretty  bunch  of  girls,  as  she  called 
them,  and  shook  her  fat  sides  with  merriment  at  the 
entertainment  they  afforded  her.  She  hud  a  married 
step-daughter  staying  with  her  at  this  time,  with  a 
family  of  little  children,  and  the  Grafton  girls,  espe- 
cially Barbara,  were  baby  worshippers.  So  that  took 
them  to  Wilborough.  And  there  were  the  links  in  the 
park,  which  Sir  Alexander  had  handed  over  to  an  in- 
formal club,  with  Worthing  as  its  secretary.  Grafton 
played  on  them  frequently  himself,  and  whenever  there 
was  anybody  there  from  the  Abbey  Lady  INIansergh 
was  pretty  sure  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  some  point 
or  other  of  the  course,  with  a  pressing  invitation  to 
lunch  or  tea.  If  it  were  not  accepted  she  would  keep 
them  company  for  a  time,  waddling  along  with  her 
dachshund  and  her  pug,  in  a  state  of  high  good  humour, 
and  talking  most  of  the  time,  both  at  those  stages  of  the 
game  that  admitted  of  conversation  and  those  that  didn't. 

Grafton's  objections  to  her  as  an  intimate  of  his 
children  to  this  friendly  open  extent  had  died  down. 
There  are  some  people  who  can  be  taken  purely  on  the 
basis  of  the  heart,  whatever  other  factors  go  to  their 
composition,  and  Lady  Mansergh  was  one  of  them. 
But,  friendly  as  he  felt  towards  her,  he  was  by  no  means 
prepared  to  admit  her  into  confidence  on  such  a  matter 
as  this  of  Beatrix's.     A  question  of  marriage,  or  of 


234  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

love — Lady  Mansergh's  experiences  on  either  might 
include  many  points  of  interest;  but  the  tacit  under- 
standing surely  was  that  such  experiences  on  her  part 
should  be  kept  in  the  background.  She  was  what  she 
was  now,  in  this  intimacy  with  his  family,  and  nothing 
of  what  she  had  been. 

She  got  hold  of  him  one  afternoon  after  he  had  fin- 
ished his  round,  and  was  strolling  up  with  the  rest 
through  the  garden  on  their  way  to  tea  on  the  terrace. 
Tea  was  not  quite  ready,  and  she  took  him  off  to  her 
rock-garden,  with  which  his  was  now  in  hot  competi- 
tion. Caroline  had  been  coming  with  them,  but  Lady 
Mansergh  sent  her  back.  "  I've  got  something  to  say 
to  your  father,  dear,"  she  said.  "  You  go  and  talk  to 
somebody  else.  You  shall  come  along  with  me  and  look 
at  the  sempervivums  after  tea  if  you  want  to." 

She  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  the  point.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Grafton,"  she  said,  "  I  like  you  and  you  like  me;  there's 
no  offence  between  friends.  Can't  you  do  something 
for  that  poor  dear  little  girl  of  yours.''  She's  crying 
her  eyes  out  for  the  man  she  loves.  /  can  see  it  if  you 
can't.  A  father's  a  father,  but  he  hadn't  ought  to  act 
harsh  to  his  children.  You'll  have  her  going  into  a 
decline  if  you  don't  do  something." 

Grafton  stood  still  and  faced  her.  "  I  didn't  know 
it  was  that  you  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about,"  he  said. 
"  Really,  Lady  Mansergh,  I  can't  discuss  it  with  you. 
Let's  go  back  to  the  others." 

She  laid  her  fat  hand  on  his  sleeve.  "  Now  don't 
cut  up  offended,  there's  a  dear  man,"  she  said  in  a 


CLOUDS  235 

pleading  soothing  voice.  "  I  do  so  love  those  girls  of 
yours,  that  it  isn't  like  interfering.  Just  let  me  talk  to 
you  a  bit  about  it.  No  harm'll  be  done  if  you  can't  see 
it  as  I  do  when  we've  had  our  little  chat." 

He  walked  on  again  with  her.  "  There's  nothing  to 
talk  about,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  know 
or  from  whom  you  know  it,  but  the  facts  are  that  the 
man  asked  for  my  permission  to  marry  Beatrix  and 
then  withdrew  his  request.  He  has  now  left  England 
and — well,  there's  an  end  of  it.  He  is  going,  evidently, 
to  forget  all  about  her,  and  she  must  learn  to  forget 
him.  She'll  do  it  quickly  enough  if  her  kind  friends 
will  leave  her  alone,  and  not  encourage  her  to  think 
she's  been  hardly  used.  She  hasn't  been  hardly  used  by 
me,  and  to  be  perfectly  straight  with  you  I  don't  like 
being  told  that  I'm  dealing  harshly  with  my  children. 
It  isn't  true,  and  couldn't  be  true,  loving  all  of  them 
as  I  do." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you're  a  'perfect  father  to  them,"  said 
Lady  Mansergh  enthusiastically.  "And  they  simply 
adore  you — every  one  of  them.  I'm  sure  it  docs  any- 
body good  to  see  you  together.  But  what  I  think,  you 
know,  Mr.  Grafton,  is  that  when  fathers  love  their 
daughters  as  you  love  those  sweet  girls  of  yours,  and 
depend  a  lot  on  them,  as,  of  course,  you  do,  with  your 
wife  gone,  poor  man! — well,  you  don't  like  'em  falling 
in  love.  It  means  somebody  else  being  put  first  like, 
when  you've  always  been  first  yourself.  But  lor',  Mr. 
Grafton,  they  won't  love  you  any  the  less  when  they 
take  husbands.     You'll  always  be  second  if  you  can't 


236  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

be  first;  and  first  you  can't  always  be,  with  human 
nature  what  it  is,  and  husbands  counting  for  more  than 
fathers." 

"  I  think  that's  perfectly  true,"  said  Grafton,  in  an 
easy  voice.  "  A  father  can't  hope  to  be  first  when  his 
daughters  marry,  but  he'll  generally  remain  second. 
Well,  when  my  daughters  do  marry  I  shall  be  content 
to  take  that  position,  and  I  shall  always  remember 
you  warned  me  that  I  should  have  to.  Thank  you 
very  much." 

"  Ah,  now  you're  laughing  at  me,"  she  said,  looking 
up  in  his  face,  "  but  you're  angry  all  the  same.  You 
ought  not  to  be  angry.  I'm  telling  you  the  woman's 
side.  When  a  woman  loves  a  man  she  loves  him  what- 
ever he  is,  and  if  he  hasn't  been  quite  what  he  ought, 
if  she's  a  good  woman  she  can  make  him  different. 
That's  what  she  thinks,  and  she's  right  to  think  it. 
The  chance  of  trying  ought  not  to  be  took  from  her." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Grafton.  "  But  in  this  case  it 
has  been  taken  from  her  by  the  man  himself.  It  comes 
down  to  that  first  and  last,  Lady  Mansergh.  It's  very 
kind  of  you  to  interest  yourself  in  the  matter,  but  really 
there's  nothing  to  be  done,  except  to  encourage  Bea- 
trix to  forget  all  about  it.  If  you'll  take  your  part 
in  doing  that,  you'll  be  doing  her  a  good  turn,  and  me 
too." 

"  There  is  something  to  be  done,  and  you  could  do 
it,"  she  said.  "  That's  to  write  and  tell  the  Marquis 
that  you  spoke  hurriedly.  However,  I  know  you  won't 
do  it,  so  I  shan't  press  you  any  more." 


CLOUDS  237 

"  No,  I  don't  propose  to  do  that,"  he  said,  "  And 
now  I  think  we'll  talk  about  something  else." 

It  was  difficult  to  be  angry  with  the  stout  kind- 
hearted  lady  herself,  but  Grafton  was  angry  over  the 
episode — more  angry  than  he  had  been  over  any  other. 
He  and  Caroline  had  come  over  in  the  little  car  that 
he  drove  himself,  and  he  talked  to  her  about  it  going 
back.  "  It's  really  intolerable  that  a  woman  like  that 
should  be  mixed  up  in  it,"  he  said.  "  She's  a  good- 
hearted  old  thing,  but  she  hasn't  exactly  the  sort  of 
history  that  makes  her  a  person  to  consult  in  an 
affair  like  this.  If  B  has  so  far  forgotten  herself  as  to 
make  a  confidant  of  Lady  Mansergh  it's  time  I  talked 
to  her  about  it.  I've  just  let  it  alone  so  far,  and  hoped 
she'd  recover  herself  by  degrees.  But  she  seems  to  be 
making  her  grievance  public  property,  and  she  must 
leave  off  doing  that." 

"  I  don't  think  she  can  have  said  anything  to  Lady 
Mansergh,"  said  Caroline,  rather  doubtful  about  it,  all 
the  same.  "  I  think  Geoffrey  Mansergh  must  have  told 
her.     He  knows  a  lot  of  people  that  we  do." 

"Oh,  she  talked  about  B  crying  her  eyes  out  for 
him.  She  must  have  tried  to  get  sympathy  from  her. 
Besides,  she  does  talk  about  it  to  other  people.  There's 
that  little  Mollie  Walter.  And  the  Pemberton  girls. 
They  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  sort  of  ogre.  And  the 
Beckley  girl  too.  Really,  I'm  not  going  to  be  put  in 
that  position.  It's  time  B  was  brought  to  her  senses. 
If  she's  going  to  change  the  whole  of  her  attitude  to- 
wards me  because  of  this,  I  suppose  I've  got  to  put  up 


238  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

with  it.  But  I'm  not  going  to  be  held  up  here  as  a 
brutal  t^^rannical  father,  and  have  the  whole  of  our 
jolly  family  hfe  spoilt,  as  she's  spoiling  it  now." 

In  this  mood  he  talked  to  Beatrix  immediately  he 
reached  home,  summoning  her  into  the  library  in 
order  to  do  so.  He  had  never  lectured  one  of  his 
children  before.  None  of  them  had  ever  needed  it. 
In  the  old  days  of  occasional  childish  naughtiness, 
when  as  a  last  resort  his  authority  had  been  called  in, 
his  way  had  been  to  take  them  on  his  knee  and  express 
surprise  and  sorrow  at  what  he  had  been  told  about 
them.  Floods  of  tears,  embraces  and  promises  of  com- 
plete and  fundamental  change  of  conduct  had  imme- 
diately followed,  and  carried  off  the  remains  of  what- 
ever naughtiness  had  been  complained  of.  To  hold  out 
against  Miss  Waterhouse  had  sometimes  been  necessary 
to  satisfy  that  spirit  of  contrariety  which  represents 
the  workings  of  original  sin  in  the  best  behaved  of 
children.  But  to  hold  out  against  him  had  never  been 
possible.  The  melting  had  come  immediately,  and  sub- 
sequent behaviour  had  always  been  beautiful  until  the 
devil  pricked  again. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  acted  in  some  sort  of  way  as  would 
have  represented  this  parental  regret,  Beatrix  might 
have  succumbed  to  it,  as  she  had  always  done  in  the 
past.  But  he  had  shown  her  so  plainly  that  his  love 
was  there  ready  for  her,  and  that  he  wanted  hers  in 
return,  and  she  had  held  aloof  from  him.  He  was 
hard  with  her,  and  she  was  hard  in  return,  with  a  hard- 
ness he  had  never  suspected  in  her.     His  displeasure 


CLOUDS  239 

seemed  not  to  disturb  her  at  all;  she  rejected  its 
grounds,  and  expressed  her  displeasure  with  him  in 
return,  not  with  any  lack  of  filial  respect,  but  still  as 
if  they  were  two  people  on  equal  terms  who  had  fallen 
out  and  could  not  come  together  again  unless  one  or 
the  other  of  them  gave  way.  That  he  was  her  father 
did  not  appear  to  her  to  be  reason  why  she  should  be 
the  one  to  give  way.  She  was  very  sorry,  but  she 
couldn't  see  that  she  had  done  anything  wrong.  She 
had  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  said  anything  to  Lady 
Mansergh,  who  had  heard  what  had  happened  from 
outside.  She  had  been  very  kind  about  it,  and  so  had 
other  people  who  knew.  Mollie  Walter  was  her  chief 
friend,  and  she  had  told  her  everything;  she  didn't  see 
how  she  could  be  blamed  for  that.  If  she  had  only 
told  her  one  side,  it  was  because  she  couldn't  see  that 
there  was  more  than  one  side.  She  had  never  said  a 
word  about  it  to  the  Pembertons,  nor  they  to  her.  But 
they  had  been  more  than  usually  kind  to  her  since,  and 
she  supposed  it  was  because  they  sympathised  with 
her.  She  didn't  see  how  she  could  be  blamed  for  that 
either. 

"  Well,  darling,"  said  Grafton,  "  perhaps  I  did  you 
an  injustice  in  thinking  that  you  had  talked  about  it 
all  too  much.  If  so,  I'm  sorry.  But  look  here,  B,  we 
can't  go  on  like  this,  you  know.  It's  spoiling  our 
family  life,  and  our  happiness  together.  You've  had 
nearly  three  weeks  now  to  get  over  it  in.  When  are 
you  going  to  begin  to  be  what  you've   always  been 


agam 


?  » 


240  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  How  can  you  expect  me  to  be  the  same?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  was  very  happy,  and  now  I'm  very  unhappy." 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  be  unhappy  all  your  life, 
you  know.  You  were  as  happy  here  a  month  ago  as  all 
the  rest  of  us.  If  you  can't  take  so  much  pleasure  in 
it  all  just  at  present  you  might  at  least  stop  spoiling 
it  for  us." 

"  How  am  I  spoiling  it  for  you.?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  you  know  that.  We've  always  been 
together,  and  since  we've  lived  here  we've  all  been  to- 
gether in  almost  everything  we've  done.  Now  we're 
not.  You  put  yourself  out  of  it.  It  affects  us  all, 
and,  of  course,  it  affects  me  more  than  anybody,  be- 
cause I  can't  take  pleasure  in  anything  that  one  of  my 
children  holds  herself  apart  from,  as  you're  doing. 
It's  more  than  that.  You're  almost  at  enmity  with 
me." 

"  No,  I'm  not.  But  how  can  I  forget  what  you've 
done.''  You've  spoilt  my  life  for  me.  If  you  hadn't 
sent  him  away,  I'd  have  loved  you  more  than  ever.  Of 
course  I  do  love  you;  but  I  can't  help  its  making  a 
difference." 

"  My  dear  child,  I've  not  spoilt  your  life  for  you  at 
all.  What  I've  done  is  to  prevent  somebody  else  spoil- 
ing it;  or,  at  any  rate,  I've  removed  the  risk  of  that 
happening." 

"  There  wasn't  any  risk  of  that  happening.  I  know 
what  he's  like,  and  I  know  how  he  loves  me.  And  I 
love  him  more  than  ever  now.  I  always  shall  love  him, 
whatever  happens.    You  can't  make  me  alter  there." 


CLOUDS  241 

"  You're  talking  very  foolishly,  B.  You're  eighteen 
years  old,  and  you've  fallen  in  love  for  the  first  time 
in  life  with  a  man  who  at  the  best  wouldn't  be  a  par- 
ticularly suitable  life  companion  for  you.  Whatever 
you  may  feel  about  it  now,  you're  not  going  to  spend 
the  rest  of  your  days  in  mourning  for  him.  In  six 
months'  time  you'll  be  wondering  how  you  can  have  felt 
about  him  as  you  do  now.     I  can  assure  you  of  that." 

She  sat  looking  down  upon  her  hands  lying  on  her 
lap,  with  an  expression  that  meant  she  was  not  going 
to  answer  a  statement  so  absurd  as  that.  Her  look  of 
obstinacy  stiffened  him  still  further  against  her,  and 
he  proceeded  to  develop  his  thesis,  not  realising  that 
by  so  doing  he  was  bound  to  produce  just  the  opposite 
effect  from  what  he  wished. 

"  Love  of  this  sort  is  like  an  illness,"  he  said.  "  You 
get  over  it  in  that  form  even  if  it  leads  to  marriage. 
If  it's  the  right  sort  of  marriage  the  love  turns  into 
something  else  that  lasts,  and  no  doubt  it's  the  right 
way  to  begin.  If  it  doesn't  lead  to  marriage,  well,  you 
simply  get  over  it.    It's  time  you  began  to  try." 

Still  no  answer.  If  he  would  talk  in  this  way,  so 
incredibly  misunderstanding  the  most  beautiful  and 
wonderful  thing  in  the  world,  it  was  her  duty  to  listen 
to  him  as  long  as  he  went  on. 

He  didn't  go  on  any  more.  He  was  irritated  by  her 
silence.  "  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  rising  from  his  chair, 
"  there's  no  use  in  saying  any  more.  If  you're  deter- 
mined to  be  love-sick,  you  must  be  so,  as  long  as  you 
can  keep  it  up.     I  should  have  thought,  though,  that 


242  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

you'd  have  had  more  pride  than  to  show  yourself  pining 
for  a  man  who,  after  all,  has  given  you  up.  I've  noth- 
ing more  to  say  about  it." 

When  she  had  left  him,  as  she  did  immediately,  as 
one  released  from  an  unpleasant  and  undesired  inter- 
view, he  greatly  reproached  himself  for  the  unkindness 
of  his  last  speech.  It  had  been  dictated  partly  by  that 
inexplicable  perversity  which  impels  to  the  hurting  of 
those  who  are  loved,  but  such  an  impulsion  was  not 
likely  to  be  strong  in  one  of  Grafton's  equable  kindly 
nature.  It  was  beastly  to  have  talked  to  the  poor  child 
in  that  way.  She  was  suffering,  and  she  couldn't  know 
that  her  suffering  was  capable  of  quick  cure.  He 
ought  to  have  been  tender  of  her  inexperience,  and 
spared  her  illusions  until  time  should  have  shown  her 
what  they  were.  Besides,  he  wanted  her  love ;  it  was 
beginning  to  distress  him  greatly  that  she  had  so  much 
withdrawn  it  from  him.  In  his  reaction  from  a  mood 
of  hard  irritation  to  one  of  tenderness  his  attitude 
towards  the  whole  question  relaxed,  and  he  asked  him- 
self again  whether  he  had  been  entirely  right  in  what 
he  had  done. 

What  had  he  done.?  His  dislike  of  Lassigny  as  a 
husband  for  Beatrix  had  been  merely  instinctive.  If 
Lassigny  had  pressed  his  suit,  even  without  satisfying 
him  that  he  was  not  what  he  seemed  to  him  to  be,  he 
could  scarcely  have  held  out.  There  would  have  been 
no  grounds  for  his  rejection  of  him  that  his  world 
could  have  seen ;  and  he  was  influenced  by  the  opinion 
of  his  world,  and,  if  it  had  been  a  question  of  any  one 


CLOUDS  243 

but  his  own  daughter,  would  most  likely  have  shared  it. 
Even  now,  in  his  greatly  softened  moods  towards  her, 
he  would  almost  have  welcomed  a  state  of  things  in 
which  she  would  not  quite  be  cut  off  from  hope.  Per- 
haps it  would  have  turned  out  all  right.  She  was  sweet 
enough  to  keep  any  man  devoted  to  her.  Her  own  love 
was  pure  enough,  even  if  it  was  at  the  stage  at  which 
it  hardly  represented  more  than  physical  attraction; 
and  she  had  a  right  to  her  own  desires;  he  could  not 
exercise  his  parental  veto  in  the  last  resort  on  any 
but  very  definite  grounds,  such  as  could  hardly  be  said 
to  exist  here.  If  only  he  could  have  given  her  what 
she  wanted,  and  made  her  happy  again,  and  loving 
towards  himself,  it  would  have  lifted  a  great  and  in- 
creasing trouble  from  him !  The  present  state  of  feel- 
ing between  him  and  his  dearly  loved  child  seemed  as  if 
it  might  part  them  permanently.  He  could  not  look 
forward  to  that  without  a  desperate  sinking  of  heart. 

But  what  could  he  do?  It  did,  after  all,  come  down, 
as  he  had  said,  to  the  fact  that  he  had  not  actually 
sent  Lassigny  away.  Lassigny  had  withdrawn  his  suit. 
That  was  the  leading  factor  in  the  situation. 

He  went  to  find  Beatrix.  He  wanted  to  put  this  to 
her,  once  more,  with  all  the  affection  that  he  felt 
towards  her,  and  to  reason  with  her  still  further,  but 
not  in  the  same  spirit  as  just  now.  And  he  wanted 
still  more  to  make  it  up  with  her.  She  was  beginning 
to  wear  him  down.  She  could  do  without  him,  but  he 
couldn't  do  without  her. 

But  Beatrix  had  gone  out,  to  talk  to  Mollie  Walter, 


244  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

and  when  she  came  in  again,  at  tea-time,  and  brought 
Mollie  with  her,  she  kissed  him,  and  was  rather  brighter 
than  she  had  been.  There  was  a  great  lift  in  his  spirits, 
and  although  she  did  not  respond  to  any  appreciable 
extent  to  his  further  affectionate  approaches  and  the 
gleam  of  sunshine  faded  again,  he  thought  he  had  bet- 
ter let  her  alone.  Perhaps  she  was  beginning  to  get 
over  it,  and  the  clouds  would  break  again,  and  finally 
roll  away  altogether. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

BUNTING  TAKES  ADVICE 

Jimmy  Beckley  had  come  over  to  spend  the  day  at 
Abington.  He  had  brought  his  sister  Vera  with  him, 
not  altogether  without  protest.  The  Grafton  girls, 
he  had  explained  to  her,  were  always  jolly  pleased  to 
see  him,  and  he  got  on  well  with  all  of  them;  in  fact 
they  were  topping  girls,  and  he  didn't  yet  know  which 
of  the  three  he  liked  best.  If  he  went  over  alone  he 
could  take  his  pick,  but  if  she  went  over  with  him,  one, 
or  perhaps  two  of  them,  would  have  to  do  the  polite 
to  her.  He  betted  that  they'd  rather  have  him  with- 
out her.  Vera,  however,  had  said  that  he  was  a  con- 
ceited little  monkey,  and  she  was  coming.  So  he  had 
made  the  best  of  it,  and  being  of  less  adamantine  stuff 
than  he  liked  to  represent  himself,  he  had  driven  her 
over  in  a  pony  cart,  instead  of  riding,  as  he  would 
have  done  if  he  had  gone  alone. 

Grafton  was  in  London  for  the  day.  Caroline  and 
Vera  wanted  to  talk  together,  and  the  other  four  played 
lawn  tennis.  But  after  a  couple  of  sets  Beatrix  said 
it  was  too  hot  to  play  any  more  and  went  indoors. 
Jimmy  looked  after  her  with  regret.  For  the  moment 
he  judged  her  to  be  the  most  attractive  of  all  the 
Grafton  girls,  and  had  invented  some  amusing  things 

245 


246  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

to  say  to  her.  It  seemed  a  pity  to  waste  them  on  Bar- 
bara. He  liked  her,  and  she  and  he  and  Bunting  had 
had  a  good  deal  of  fun  together  at  one  time  or  another. 
But  it  had  been  boy's  fun,  in  which  she  had  naturally 
taken  a  subordinate  part,  as  became  one  of  her  sex. 
She  was  hardly  old  enough  to  awaken  a  more  tender 
emotion  in  his  breast.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
towards  Caroline  and  Beatrix  both,  but  was  not  yet 
sure  which  of  them  he  should  choose  when  he  came  to 
man's  estate.  Beatrix  was  the  prettier  of  the  two, 
but  they  were  both  very  pretty,  and  Caroline  responded 
rather  more  to  his  advances. 

Barbara  suggested  a  tournament  between  the  three 
of  them,  but  the  boys  didn't  care  about  that,  nor  for  a 
three-handed  set.  Eventually,  after  a  short  rest,  and 
some  agreeable  conversation,  Barbara  found  herself 
shelved,  she  did  not  quite  know  how,  and  Jimmy  and 
Bunting  went  off  to  the  gooseberry  bushes ;  not  with- 
out advice  from  Barbara  not  to  make  little  pigs  of 
themselves. 

"  It's  a  rummy  thing,"  said  Jimmy,  "  that  girls  of 
Barbara's  age  never  quite  know  how  to  behave  them- 
selves. They  think  it's  funny  to  be  merely  rude.  Now 
neither  of  us  would  make  a  mistake  of  that  sort.  I 
suppose  it's  because  they  haven't  knocked  about  as 
much  as  we  have.  They  don't  get  their  corners  rubbed 
off." 

"  Oh,  Barbara's  all  right,"  said  Bunting,  who  re- 
spected Jimmy's  opinions  but  did  not  like  to  hear  his 
sisters  criticised.     "  We  say  things  like  that  to  each 


BUNTING  TAKES  ADVICE  247 

other.     She  didn't  mean  anything  by  it.     You  didn't 
take  it  quite  in  the  right  way." 

"  My  dear  chap,"  said  Jimmy,  "  you  needn't  make 
excuses.  They're  not  wanted  here.  I  know  how  to  take 
a  girl  of  Barbara's  age  all  right.  I'm  not  saying  any- 
thing against  her  either.  She's  young ;  that's  all  that's 
the  matter  with  her.  In  a  few  years'  time  any  fellow 
will  be  pleased  to  talk  to  her,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  she  didn't  turn  out  as  well  worth  taking  notice  of  as 
Caroline  and  Beatrix.  I  say,  old  chap,  I'm  sorry  to 
hear  about  this  business  of  B's.  She  seems  rather 
under  the  weather  about  it.  But  she'll  get  over  it  in 
time,  you'll  see.  There  are  lots  of  fellows  left  in  the 
world.  You  won't  have  her  long  on  your  hands,  unless 
I'm  a  Dutchman." 

"  It's  rather  a  bore,"  said  Bunting  shortly.  He 
had  not  known  that  Jimmy  knew  anything  about  this 
business  of  B's,  and  had  not  intended  to  refer  to  it. 
But  as  he  did  know,  there  would  be  no  harm  in  discuss- 
ing it  with  him.  He  rather  wanted  the  opinion  of 
another  man  on  the  subject.  "  I  never  saw  the  chap 
myself,"  he  added.  "  But  if  the  pater  doesn't  think 
it's  good  enough,  that's  enough  for  me." 

"  I  say,  old  chap,  you  must  get  out  of  the  way  of 
calling  your  governor  pater,"  said  Jimmy.  "  It  was 
all  right  at  your  private  school,  but  it's  a  bit  infantile 
for  fellows  of  our  age." 

"  Well,  the  Governor  then,"  said  Bunting,  blushing 
hotly.  "  He  saw  the  chap  at  the  Bank,  and  told  him  he 
wasn't  taking  any.     So  the  chap  went  away." 


248  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  What  arc  they  like  on  that  bush?  "  asked  Jimmy. 
"  I  don't  care  for  this  lot.  Was  there  anything  against 
the  fellow?  Ah,  these  are  better.  Not  enough  boodle, 
or  something  of  that  sort?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  replied  Bunting.  "  He's  a  rich 
chap,  I  think,  and  a  sort  of  peer  in  his  own  country. 
'Course  I  shouldn't  care  for  one  of  the  girls  to  marry 
a  Frenchman  myself." 

"  I  haven't  got  that  sort  of  feeling,"  said  Jimmy. 
"  It's  rather  vieux  jeu.  One  of  my  aunts  married  a 
Frenchman;  they've  got  a  topping  villa  at  Biarritz 
and  I  stayed  with  them  last  year.  He's  plus  two  at 
golf,  and  hunts  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Just  like 
one  of  us." 

"  I  believe  this  chap  is  too,"  said  Bunting.  "  Still 
if  the  Governor  didn't  care  about  it,  it's  enough  for 
me." 

"  You  said  that  before.  You  should  get  out  of  the 
way  of  repeating  yourself,  Grafton.  It's  the  girl  I'm 
thinking  of.  Rather  hard  luck  on  her,  if  she's  in  love 
with  the  fellow.  However,  there  are  lots  of  other  fel- 
lows who'll  be  quite  ready  to  take  it  on." 

"  You  said  that  before.  You  should  get  out  of  the 
way  of  repeating  yourself,  Beckley." 

"  One  up,"  admitted  Jimmy.  "  I  shouldn't  let  her 
mope  if  I  were  you.  When  girls  are  in  that  state  they 
want  amusing.  She  was  quite  lively  at  first  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  was  going  to  try  and  buck  her  up  a  bit 
after  we'd  played  a  set  or  two.  But  she  went  in  before 
I  could  get  to  work.     It  comes  over  them  sometimes, 


BUNTING  TAKES  ADVICE  249 

you  know.     I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she  weren't  having  a 
good  blub  at  this  very  moment.     It  takes  'em  like  that." 

"  You  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  it  for  a  man  of  your 
age." 

"  Well,  I  do  know  a  bit.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
Grafton,  as  we're  pals,  and  I  know  it  won't  go  any 
further,  that  I  was  jolly  well  struck  on  a  girl  last 
winter.  Used  to  meet  her  in  the  hunting-field  and  all 
that.  I'm  not  sure  I  didn't  save  her  life  once.  She 
was  going  straight  for  a  fence  where  there  was  a  harrow 
lying  in  the  field  just  the  other  side  that  she  couldn't 
see.     I  shouted  out  to  her  just  in  time." 

"  How  did  you  know  the  harrow  was  there.'*  " 

"  'Cos  it  happened  to  be  on  our  own  place,  for- 
tunately, and  I  remembered  it.  'Course  it  was  nothing 
that  I  did,  really,  but  she'd  have  taken  a  nasty  toss, 
I  expect,  even  if  she  hadn't  killed  herself.  She  went 
quite  white,  and  thanked  me  in  a  way  that — well  it 
showed  what  she  thought  of  it.  I  believe  if  I'd  said 
something  then — she — I  don't  think  she'd  have  minded." 

"Why  didn't  you.?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.    I  suppose  I  wasn't  quite  ready." 

"  You're  generally  ready  enough." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know  how  it  takes  you,  Grafton. 
You  wait  till  your  time  comes.  That  girl  could  have 
done  anything  Avith  me,  as  long  as  it  kept  on.  She 
came  to  a  ball  we  had  that  night,  and  I'd  picked  up  a 
bit  then.  I'd  made  up  my  mind  that  if  I'd  done  her  a 
^ood  turn  I'd  get  something  for  it." 

"  What  did  you  get.?  " 


250  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"Ah,  you  want  to  know  too  much.  But  I  don't 
mind  telling  you  that  I  danced  with  her  four  times, 
and  she  chucked  over  a  fellow  in  his  third  year  at 
Oxford  for  me." 

"Was  that  all  you  got.?" 

"No,  it  wasn't.  But  I  shan't  tell  you  any  more. 
It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  girl.  It's  all  come  to  an  end 
now,  but  I'm  not  going  to  give  her  away." 

"Do  I  know  her.?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  that  either.  You  might  spot  who 
it  was,  and  that  wouldn't  be  quite  fair  to  her.  Fact 
of  the  matter  is  I  rather  fancy  I  left  off  before  she 
did.  That's  the  sort  of  thing  girls  don't  like  having 
known." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  off.?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  promised  to  write  to  me 
when  I  went  back  to  Eton, — there,  I've  let  that  out — 
and  she  didn't  do  it  for  I  don't  know  how  long.  I  was 
rather  sick  about  it,  and  when  she  did  write  I  answered 
her  rather  coldly.  I  thought  she'd  write  again  and 
want  to  know  what  the  matter  was.  But  she  didn't. 
That  cooled  me  off,  I  suppose,  and  when  I  came  back 
this  time — well,  I  found  there  were  other  girls  I  liked 
better." 

"  Oh  then  you've  seen  her ;  so  she  must  live  about 
here.  Is  it  Maggie  Williams.?  I  thought  she  was 
rather  a  pretty  kid  when  she  was  at  your  house  the 
other  day." 

"  Maggie  Williams !  My  dear  chap,  what  are  you 
thinking  about.?    She's  an  infant  in  arms.     How  could 


BUNTING  TAKES  ADVICE  251 

she  have  come  to  a  dance  at  our  house,  and  given  me  a 
carnation — there  I've  let  that  out.  Maggie  Williams! 
Why  she  gets  ink  on  her  fingers." 

"  I  know  she's  thirteen  because  she  told  me  so ;  and 
she's  your  parson's  daughter;  I  don't  see  why  she 
shouldn't  have  come  to  your  ball." 

"  Well,  she  didn't  anyhow ;  and  I  don't  go  in  for 
baby-snatching.  If  I  take  to  a  girl  she's  got  to  know 
a  bit." 

"  I  don't  know  all  the  people  about  here  yet.  You 
might  tell  me  whether  I've  seen  her." 

"  No,  my  son.     She  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  I  believe  it's  all  swank.  If  she's  grown  up,  and 
she  let  you  kiss  her,  I  expect  it  was  just  because  she 
thought  you  were  only  a  little  boy,  and  it  didn't 
matter." 

"  I  never  said  I  did  kiss  her." 

"  Well,  you  must  have  been  an  ass  if  you  didn't." 

"  I  didn't  say  I  didn't  either.  But  I  don't  mind  tell- 
ing you  that  I'd  arranged  a  sitting-out  place  with  a 
bit  of  mistletoe  beforehand." 

"  You  might  tell  me  who  it  was." 

*'  She's  a  very  fine  girl.  Rides  like  a  good  'un,  and 
sticks  at  nothing.  I  don't  say  it's  absolutely  all  over 
yet.  I  shall  see  what  I  feel  about  it  next  season.  I 
like  her  best  on  a  horse." 

"  Is  it  one  of  the  Pembertons  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  I  shouldn't  tell  you  who  it  was." 

"  Oh  then  it  must  be,  or  you'd  have  said  no.  They're 
all  a  bit  too  ancient  for  my  taste." 


252  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  There's  a  lot  of  the  kid  in  you  still,  Grafton.  If 
you  call  Kate  Pemberton  ancient,  I  pity  your  taste. 
Still,  if  you're  inclined  to  be  gone  on  Maggie  Williams, 
I  dare  say  you  would  think  Kate  Pemberton  ancient." 

"  You're  an  ass.  I'm  not  gone  on  Maggie  Williams. 
I  only  thought  she  was  rather  a  nice  kid.  Was  it  really 
Kate  Pemberton,  Beckley.?  She  is  rather  a  topper,  now 
you  come  to  mention  it." 

"  I  don't  say  it  is  and  I  don't  say  it  isn't.  I  say, 
I  think  we've  made  this  bush  look  rather  foolish.  I 
vote  we  knock  off  now.  How  would  it  be  if  we  went 
and  routed  B  out  and  tried  to  cheer  her  up  a  bit?  " 

Bunting  was  doubtful  about  the  expediency  of  this 
step,  though  he  thanked  his  friend  for  the  kind  thought. 
"  I'm  leaving  her  alone  a  bit  just  now,"  he  said.  "  To 
tell  you  the  truth  I'm  not  very  pleased  with  her.  She's 
not  behaving  very  decently  to  the  Governor." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  rather  sympathise  with  her 
there,"  said  Jimmy,  as  they  strolled  across  the  lawn 
together.  "  I  should  always  be  inclined  to  take  the 
girl's  side  in  an  affair  of  this  sort.  If  one  of  my  sisters 
ever  comes  across  my  Governor  in  that  way,  I  think  I 
shall  back  her  up.  But  they're  not  so  taking  as  yours ; 
I  expect  I  shall  have  the  whole  lot  of  them  on  ray  hands 
by  and  by." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  will,"  said  Bunting  politely. 
"  Of  course  your  Governor  is  a  good  deal  older  than 
mine.  He  doesn't  make  a  pal  of  you  like  ours  does  of 
us.  That's  why  I  don't  like  the  way  B  is  going  on. 
It  worries  him.     Of  course  he  wouldn't  have  stopped 


BUNTING  TAKES  ADVICE  253 

it  at  all  if  he  hadn't  a  jolly  good  reason.  She  ought 
to  see  that." 

"  My  dear  chap,  you  can't  expect  a  girl  to  see  any- 
thing when  she's  in  that  state.  I  know  what  I'm  talk- 
ing about.  Give  her  her  head  and  she'll  come  round  all 
right  in  time." 

"  Do  you  think  she  will.?  " 

"  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  tell  your  Governor  to  leave  her 
alone,  and  pretend  not  to  notice." 

"  All  right,  I  will.  Shall  I  say  that's  the  advice  of 
James  Beckley,  Esquire?  I  say,  what  about  a  round 
with  a  mashie?  " 

"  I'm  game,"  said  Jimmy.  "  Don't  you  think  it 
would  do  B  good  to  fish  her  out  and  have  a  foursome.'* 
I'm  sorry  for  that  little  girl." 

"  Oh,  leave  her  alone,"  said  Bunting.  *'  Perhaps 
she'll  play  after  lunch." 

"  Just  as  you  like,  old  man.  I  only  thought  I  might 
do  something  to  make  her  forget  her  troubles  for  a  bit. 
My  advice  to  you  is  to  go  gently  with  her.  I'll  give 
you  two  strokes  in  eighteen  holes  and  play  you  for  a 
bob." 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

TWO  CONVERSATIONS 

The  reason  for  Graftons  going  up  to  London  that  day 
was  that  another  of  his  sisters-in-law  had  taken  a  hand 
in  the  affair.  Lady  Handsworth,  under  whose  wing 
Beatrix  had  enjoyed  her  London  gaieties,  had  written 
to  him  to  say  that  it  was  very  important  that  she  should 
see  him.  She  should  be  passing  through  on  such  and 
such  a  day,  and  would  he  please  come  and  lunch  with 
her  without  fail.  She  had  something  very  important, 
underlined,  to  say,  which  she  couldn't  write.  She  didn't 
want  merely  to  expostulate  with  him,  or  to  give  him 
advice,  which  she  knew  he  wouldn't  take.  As  he  had 
allowed  her  to  look  after  Beatrix,  and  take  a  mother's 
place  towards  her,  she  felt  that  she  had  a  right  to  a 
say  in  the  matter  of  her  marriage;  so  she  hoped  he 
wouldn't  disappoint  her;  she  didn't  want  to  act  in  any 
way  apart  from  him. 

There  was  a  veiled  threat  in  this  paragraph.  There 
was  always  that  feeling  in  his  mind  that  something 
might  be  done  behina  his  back  by  some  kind  sympathiser 
with  Beatrix.  Besides,  he  did  owe  something  to  Lady 
Handsworth.  She  played  in  some  sort  a  mother's  part 
towards  Beatrix.  To  her,  if  to  anybody,  he  had 
relegated  the  duty  of  watching  any  movement  in  the 

254 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  255 

marriage  mart  of  Mayfair,  and  it  was  due  to  her  that 
he  should  justify  himself  in  his  objections  to  a  match 
that  she  evidently  thought  to  be  a  suitable  one.  They 
all  thought  that.  Unless  he  could  justify  himself  he 
would  remain  to  them  as  a  mere  figure  of  prejudice 
and  unreason. 

Lady  Handsworth  was  a  good  deal  older  than  Lady 
Grafton,  and  her  manners  were  not  so  unbending.  But 
she  had  a  kind  heart  beneath  her  stately  exterior,  and 
had  shown  it  to  Beatrix.  She  had  daughters  of  her 
own,  and  it  was  to  be  supposed  that  she  wished  to 
marry  them  off.  They  were  not  nearly  so  attractive 
as  the  Grafton  girls  whom  she  had  successively  chap- 
eroned. But  she  had  made  no  differences  between  them, 
and  both  Caroline  and  Beatrix  were  fond  of  her. 

Part  of  the  big  house  in  Hill  Street  had  been  opened 
up  for  a  few  days.  Lord  Handsworth  was  in  London, 
and  two  of  the  girls  were  with  their  mother,  but  Graf- 
ton lunched  alone  with  his  sister-in-law,  and  the  serv- 
ants only  came  in  at  the  necessary  intervals. 

She  wanted,  of  course,  to  know  the  whys  and  where- 
fores of  what  she  evidently  considered  an  unreasonable 
action  on  his  part,  and  he  resigned  himself  to  going 
over  the  ground  again.  "  I  can't  think  why  you  and 
Mary  don't  see  it  as  I  do,"  he  said  when  he  had  done  so. 
"  You're  neither  of  you  women  who  think  that  money 
and  position  are  the  only  things  that  would  matter, 
and  you,  at  any  rate,  can't  think  that  it's  going  to 
spoil  B's  life  not  to  marry  a  man  she's  fallen  in  love 
with  at  eighteen," 


256  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  that  isn't  more  important  than 
you  think,  George,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  she'll  get 
over  it,  and,  of  course,  she'll  marry  somebody  else,  if 
she  doesn't  marry  him.  But  there's  nothing  quite  like 
the  first  love,  for  a  girl,  especially  when  she's  like  B, 
who  has  never  thought  about  it,  as  most  girls  do,  and 
it  has  come  as  a  sort  of  revelation  to  her." 

Grafton  felt  some  surprise  at  the  expression  of  this 
view  from  her.  "  Yes,  if  she  had  fallen  in  love  with 
the  right  sort  of  fellow,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  she  had, 
if  she  has  to  marry  young.  Margaret  married  like 
that,  and  she  and  I  were  as  happy  together  as  two 
people  could  be.  But  a  fellow  of  Lassigny's  age,  with 
all  that  sort  of  life  as  his  background — taking  a  sud- 
den fancy  to  her,  and  she  to  him — you're  not  going  to 
found  the  happiness  Margaret  and  I  had  on  that,  my 
dear  Katherine." 

"  No  two  people  are  alike,"  said  Lady  Handsworth ; 
"  and  you  can't  tell  how  any  marriage  will  turn  out 
from  that  point  of  view.  All  that  one  can  say  is  that 
a  girl  ought  to  have  a  right  to  work  it  out  for  herself, 
unless  there's  a  very  obvious  objection  to  the  man. 
There  isn't  here.  And  you  have  three  daughters, 
George.  You  won't  be  able  to  pick  husbands  for  all 
of  them  that  exactly  suit  your  views.  You've  given 
me  some  responsibility  in  the  matter,  you  know.  I 
own  I  didn't  see  this  coming  on,  but  if  I  had  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  just  the  right  thing.  It 
is  as  good  a  match  as  you  could  want  for  any  of  the 
girls." 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  257 

"  Oh,  a  good  match !  You  know  I  don't  care  much 
about  that,  if  it's  the  right  sort  of  fellow." 

"  Well,  you  knew  Lassigny.  At  one  time  I  thought 
it  was  quite  likely  that  he  would  propose  for  Caroline. 
You  had  seen  him  with  her  yourself  constantly,  and 
never  made  any  objections  to  him.  He  had  dined  with 
you,  and  you  even  asked  him  down  to  Abington  with  us. 
One  would  have  said  that  you  would  have  welcomed  it. 
I,  at  least,  would  never  have  supposed  that  you  would 
treat  it  as  if  it  were  a  thing  quite  out  of  the  question." 

"  Well,  there  is  something  in  all  that,  Katherine. 
But  I  suppose  the  fact  is  that  a  woman — especially  a 
woman  in  the  position  you've  been  towards  B — is  always 
on  the  lookout  for  something  to  happen  between  a  man 
and  a  girl  who  make  friends.  I  can  only  tell  you  that 
I  wasn't.  I  wouldn't  have  expected  it  to  come  on  sud- 
denly like  that.  I've  known  all  about  Caroline  and  her 
friendships.  I  suppose  you  know  that  Francis  Parry 
wants  to  marry  her.  She  told  me  all  about  it.  She's 
told  me  about  other  proposals  she's  had.  That  seems 
to  me  the  normal  course  with  girls  who  can  tell  every- 
thing to  their  father,  as  mine  can  to  me." 

She  laughed  at  him  quietly.  "  Caroline  has  never 
been  in  love,"  she  said,  "  or  anywhere  near  it.  Of 
course  she  tells  you  everything,  because  she  wants  an 
excuse  for  not  doing  what  she  thinks  perhaps  she 
ought  to  do.  She  puts  the  responsibility  on  you. 
When  she  does  fall  in  love  you  wiil  very  likely  know 
nothing  about  it  until  she  tells  you  just  as  B  did." 

He  laughed  in  his  turn.     "  I  know  Caroline  better 


258  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

than  you  do,"  he  said.  "  And  I  thought  B  was  like 
her.  I'm  very  distressed  about  the  way  she's  taking 
this,  Katherine.  She's  a  different  child  altogether.  A 
day  or  two  ago  I  thought  she  was  beginning  to  get 
over  it;  but  she  mopes  about  and  is  getting  thin.  She 
doesn't  want  to  go  away  either,  though  there  are  plenty 
of  people  who  want  her.  And  between  her  and  me,  in- 
stead of  being  what  it  always  has  been, — well,  she's 
like  a  different  person.  I  hardly  know  her.  There  has 
been  no  time  in  my  life  when  things  have  gone  so  wrong 
— except  when  Margaret  died.  And  until  this  hap- 
pened we  were  enjoying  ourselves  more  than  ever.  You 
saw  how  we'd  got  ourselves  into  the  right  sort  of  life 
when  you  came  to  Abington.    It's  all  changed  now." 

"  Poor  George !  "  she  said.  "  You  couldn't  expect  it 
to  last  quite  like  that  at  Abington,  you  know.  You 
should  have  bought  your  country  house  ten  years  ago, 
when  the  girls  were  only  growing  up.  You  can't  keep 
them  there  indefinitely.  As  for  B,  you  can  change  all 
that  trouble  for  yourself  easily  enough.  I  think,  in  spite 
of  what  you  say,  you  must  see  that  there  was  not  a  good 
enough  reason  for  refusing  Lassigny  for  her.  Let  it 
come  on  again  and  she'll  be  happy  enough;  and  she'll 
be  to  you  what  she  always  has  been." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Katherine,  you,  and  Mary,  and  every- 
body else,  quite  ignore  the  fact  that  it  is  Lassigny  who 
has  withdrawn  himself.  If  I  wanted  him  for  B,  which 
I  certainly  don't,  how  could  I  get  him.?  You  don't 
propose,  I  should  think,  that  I  should  write  to  him  and 
ask  him  to  reconsider  his  withdrawal.'* 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  259 

"  No,  but  there  are  other  ways.  If  you  were  to 
withdraw  your  opposition,  and  it  were  known  to  him 
that  you  had  done  so!  I  think  you  ought  not  to  make 
too  much  of  his  withdrawal.  He  had  every  right  to 
suppose  that  you  would  not  object  to  him  as  a  hus- 
band for  one  of  the  girls.  No  man  could  think  any- 
thing else  after  he  had  been  treated  as  you  treated  him, 
and  his  position  is  good  enough  for  him  to  consider 
himself  likely  to  be  welcomed  as  a  suitor.  He  would 
be,  by  almost  every  parent  in  England.  You  can't  be 
surprised  at  his  having  taken  offence.  It  would  be 
just  as  difficult  for  him  to  recede  from  the  position  you 
forced  him  into  as  for  you." 

He  was  silent.  "  I  really  don't  think  it's  fair  on  B 
to  leave  it  like  this,"  she  said.  "  She  will  get  over  it,  of 
course ;  but  she  will  always  think  that  you  hastily  de- 
cided something  for  her  that  she  ought  to  have  decided 
for  herself." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  decided  too  hastily,"  he  said  un- 
willingly. "  I  should  have  been  satisfied,  I  think,  to 
have  had  a  delay.  I  should  always  have  hated  the 
idea,  but " 

"  Would  you  consent  now  to  a  delay,  if  he  were  to 
come  forward  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Katherine,  what  are  you  plotting? 
Why  not  let  the  child  get  over  it,  as  she  will  in  a  few 
months .''  " 

"  You  don't  yourself  think  that  she'll  get  over  it  in 
a  few  months,  so  as  to  bring  her  back  to  you  what  she 
was  before.     I've  plotted  nothing,  George.     I  should 


260  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

have  left  it  altogether  alone,  but  I  have  been  asked 
to  talk  to  you.  Mme.  de  Lassignj  is  in  England,  She 
wants  to  see  you  about  it.  That  was  why  I  asked  you 
to  come  up.  She  is  at  Claridge's.  She  would  like  you 
to  go  and  see  her  there  this  afternoon.  Or  she  would 
come  here." 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

"  No.  But  Lady  Ardrishaig  does.  They  have  met. 
She  wrote  to  me.  I  think  you  ought  to  see  her,  George. 
You  have  admitted  that  it  was  all  done  too  hastily,  with 
him.  If  your  objections  to  him  are  reasonable  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  state  them  so  that  others  can 
accept  them." 

"  It  will  be  a  very  disagreeable  interview,  Katherine." 

"  It  need  not  be.  And  you  ought  not  to  shirk  it  on 
that  account." 

"  I  don't  want  to  shirk  anything.  Very  well,  I  will 
go  and  see  this  good  lady.  Oh,  what  a  nuisance  it  all 
is !     I  wish  we'd  never  seen  the  fellow." 

The  telephone  was  put  into  operation,  and  Grafton 
went  immediately  to  Claridge's.  The  Marquise  received 
him  in  a  room  full  of  the  flowers  and  toys  with  which 
rich  travelling  Americans  transform  their  temporary 
habitations  into  a  semblance  of  permanence.  She  was 
of  that  American  type  which  coalesces  so  well  with  the 
French  aristocracy.  Tall  and  upright,  wonderfully 
preserved  as  to  face  and  figure;  grey  hair  beautifully 
dressed;  gowned  in  a  way  that  even  a  man  could 
recognise  as  exceptional;  rather  more  jewelled  than  an 
Englishwoman  would  be  in  the  day-time,  but  not  ex- 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  261 

cessively  so  for  essential  suitability ;  vivacious  in  speech 
and  manner,  but  with  a  good  deal  of  the  grande  dame 
about  her  too.  The  interview  was  not  likely  to  be  a 
disagreeable  one,  if  she  were  allowed  to  conduct  it  in 
her  own  fashion. 

She  thanked  Grafton  pleasantly  for  coming  to  see 
her,  and  then  plunged  immediately  into  the  middle  of 
things.  "  You  and  my  son  hardly  finished  your  con- 
versation," she  said.  "  I  think  you  slightly  annoyed 
one  another,  and  it  was  broken  off.  I  hope  you  wUl 
allow  me  to  carry  it  on  a  little  further  on  his 
behalf.  And  I  must  tell  you,  to  begin  with,  Mr. 
Grafton,  that  he  has  not  asked  me  to  do  so.  But 
we  mothers  in  France  love  our  sons — I  am  quite 
French  in  that  respect — and  I  know  he  is  very 
unhappy.  You  must  forgive  an  old  woman  if  she 
intervenes." 

She  could  not  long  since  have  passed  sixty,  and  but 
for  her  nearly  white  hair  would  not  have  looked  older 
than  Grafton  himself.  He  made  some  deprecatory 
murmur,  and  she  proceeded. 

"  I  have  long  wanted  Rene  to  range  himself,"  she  said. 
"  He  will  make  a  good  husband  to  a  girl  whom  he  loves 
— I  can  assure  you  of  that,  for  I  know  him  very  well. 
He  loves  your  little  daughter  devotedly,  Mr.  Grafton. 
Fortunately,  I  have  seen  her  for  myself,  once  or  twice 
here  in  London,  though  I  have  never  spoken  to  her. 
I  think  she  is  the  sweetest  thing.  I  should  adore  him 
to  marry  her.  Won't  you  think  better  of  it,  Mr.  Graf- 
ton ?    I  wouldn't  dare  to  ask  you — I  have  really  come  to 


262  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

London  on  purpose  to  do  it — if  I  weren't  sure  that 
you  were  mistaken  about  him." 

"How  am  I  mistaken  about  him?"  asked  Grafton. 
"  I  am  very  English,  you  know.  We  have  our  own 
ideas  about  married  life.  I  needn't  defend  them,  but  I 
think  they're  the  best  there  are.  They're  different 
from  the  French  ideas.  They're  different  from  your 
son's  ideas.  He  made  that  plain,  or  we  shouldn't  have 
parted  as  we  did." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  you  have  put  it  in  that  direct 
way,"  she  said.  "  I  have  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  with 
your  ideas ;  they're  not  so  different  from  those  in  which 
I  was  brought  up.  I  wasn't  brought  to  Europe  to 
marry  a  title,  as  some  of  our  girls  are.  It  was  a 
chance  I  did  so.  I  was  in  love  with  my  husband,  and 
my  married  life  was  all  I  could  wish  for,  as  long  as 
it  lasted.  It  would  be  the  same,  I  feel  sure,  with  your 
daughter." 

Grafton  smiled  at  her.  *'  If  we  are  to  talk  quite 
directly,"  he  said  " — and  it's  no  good  talking  at  all 
if  we  don't — I  must  say  that,  as  far  as  I  can  judge, 
American  women  are  more  adaptable  than  English. 
They  adapt  themselves  here  to  our  ideas,  when  they 
marry  Englishmen,  and  they  adapt  themselves  to 
Frenchmen,  whose  ways  are  different  from  ours.  I 
don't  think  an  English  girl  could  adapt  herself  to  cer- 
tain things  that  are  taken  for  granted  in  France.  I 
don't  think  that  a  girl  like  mine  should  be  asked  to. 
She  wouldn't  be  prepared  for  it.  It  would  be  a  great 
shock  to  her  if  it  happened.     She  would  certainly  have 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  263 

a  right  to  blame  her  father  if  she  were  made  un- 
happy by  it.  I  don't  want  my  daughters  to  blame  me 
for  anything." 

She  had  kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  him.  "  Well, 
Mr.  Grafton,"  she  said,  "  we  won't  run  away  from 
anything.  Can  you  say  of  any  man,  French  or  Eng- 
lish or  American,  who  is  rich  and  lives  a  life  chiefly  to 
amuse  himself,  that  he  is  always  going  to  remain  faith- 
ful to  his  wife.''  How  many  young  Englishmen  of  the 
type  that  you  would  be  pleased  to  marry  your  daughter 
to  could  you  say  it  of,  for  certain?  " 

"  Of  a  good  many.  And  I  should  say  there  wasn't 
one  who  wouldn't  intend  to  keep  absolutely  straight 
when  he  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  and  wanted  to  marry  her. 
If  he  wasn't  like  that,  I  think  one  would  know,  and 
feel  exactly  the  same  objection  as  I  must  admit  I  feel 
towards  your  son." 

"  Oh,  but  you  do  mistake  him.  It  was  because  you 
doubted  him  that  he  took  such  offence.  As  he  said  to 
me,  it  was  like  saying  that  your  own  daughter  was 
not  worthy  to  be  loved  for  all  her  life." 

Grafton  felt  a  sudden  spurt  of  resentment.  His 
voice  was  not  so  level  as  usual  as  he  said :  "  It's  easy 
enough  to  put  it  in  that  way.  He  said  much  the  same 
to  me.  Of  course  she's  worthy  to  be  loved  all  her  life. 
Would  you  guarantee  that  she  always  would  be  ?  " 

There  was  the  merest  flicker  of  her  eyelids  before  she 
replied :  "  How  could  one  guarantee  any  such  thing 
for  any  man,  even  for  one's  own  son?  All  I  can  tell 
you  is  that  he  will  make  her  a  devoted  husband,  and 


264  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

her  chances  of  happiness  are  as  great  with  him  as  if 
he  were  an  Englishman.  I  won't  say  that  he  has  never 
loved  another  woman.  That  would  be  absurd.  What 
I  can  say  is  that  he  does  love  no  one  else,  and  that  he 
loves  her  in  such  a  way  as  to  put  the  thought  of  other 
women  out  of  his  mind.  That  is  exactly  what  love  that 
leads  to  marriage  should  be,  in  my  opinion.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me,  Mr.  Grafton.'*  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  It  ought  to  do  that." 

"  And  if  it  does,  what  more  have  you  a  right  to  ask.'' 
Our  men  are  chivalrous.  The  very  fact  of  his  marrying 
an  innocent  English  girl,  who  would  be  hurt  by  what 
she  had  had  no  experience  of  would  act  with  my  son — 
or  I  should  think  with  any  gentleman." 

"  Frenchmen  generally  marry  innocent  girls,  don't 
they,  Madame  ?  " 

"  You  mean  that  it  doesn't  prevent  them  leaving 
them  afterwards.  Well,  perhaps  not  always.  But 
surely,  Mr.  Grafton,  you  do  ask  too  much,  don't  you.'' 
If  he  loves  her  and  she  loves  him,  it  isn't  reasonable  to 
keep  them  apart,  is  it.''  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment  before  asking:  "How  am 
I  keeping  them  apart  ?  " 

"Would  3'ou  allow  them  to  come  together  again.''" 
she  asked  in  her  turn. 

He  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair.  The  thought  of 
his  little  B  once  more  living  with  him  moved  him.  "  I 
think  it  would  be  better  if  they  didn't,"  he  said.  "  But 
if — after  a  time " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  now  at  once,"  she  said.    "  Indeed 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  265 

that  would  be  impossible,  for  I  have  persuaded  him  to 
go  to  America.  He  is  to  start  very  shortly,  and  won't 
be  in  England  again  before  he  goes." 

Grafton  felt  a  considerable  sense  of  relief  at  this 
statement.     "How  long  is  he  to  be  away.''"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  for  the  winter,  if  he  amuses  himself. 
But  he  may  want  to  hunt  in  England." 

"  If  you  told  him  that  he  might  see  her  again 
wouldn't  he  want  to  come  back.''  Perhaps  he  wouldn't 
want  to  go.  I  think  I  should  stipulate,  anyhow,  that 
he  did  go — or  at  least  that  he  shouldn't  see  her  again, 
or  write  to  her,  say  for  six  months.  I  think,  perhaps, 
I  haven't  the  right  to  reject  him  altogether,  on  the 
ground  of  my  objections.  But  I  do  feel  them  strongly. 
It  will  be  a  grief  to  me  if  my  daughter  makes  this 
marriage.  I  have  a  right,  I  think,  to  make  sure  that 
her  feeling  for  him  is  at  least  strong  enough  to  stand 
six  months  of  being  parted.  If  she  is  the  same  at 
the  end  of  it,  then  perhaps  I  couldn't  hold  out.  I 
think  the  same  test  might  apply  to  him.  It  would 
relieve  my  fears  somewhat  for  the  future,  if  he  still 
wants  to  marry  her  at  the  end  of  that  time." 

"  Perhaps  he  won't,  Mr.  Grafton,"  she  said,  with 
a  slight  change  of  manner.  "  You  may  have  asked 
yourself  why  I  should  have  pleaded  with  you,  as  I 
have  done,  for  permission  for  my  son  to  pay  ad- 
dresses to  your  daughter.  Though  I  should  be  proud 
of  her,  and  should  love  her  too,  it  would  not  be  a  bril- 
liant match  for  my  son.  I  might  prefer  another  sort  of 
match  for  him.     As  you  have  said,  Americans  make 


266  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

good  wives  for  French  husbands — perhaps  better  than 
English  girls.     They  do  not  demand  so  much." 

He  gathered  that  she  was  feeling  uneasy  at  being 
in  the  position  of  asking  for  what  she  would  have 
preferred  to  concede  as  a  favour,  and  was  rather 
amused  at  it.  "  I  should  have  thought  it  would  have 
suited  you  much  better,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 
"  Why  is  it  that  you  should  not  be  satisfied  with  the 
unreasonable  objections  of  an  Englishman  who  ought 
to  be  pleased  at  the  idea  of  his  daughter  marrying 
your  son?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  hold  rank  to  be  the  chief  thing 
in  marriage,  any  more  than  you  do,  Mr.  Grafton," 
she  answered  him  directly.  "  And  money  isn't  wanted 
in  this  case,  though  more  money  is  always  useful  in 
our  world.  It  is  just  because  I  want  for  my  son  in 
marriage  what  you  want  for  your  daughter  that  I 
should  like  to  see  him  marry  her.  It  is  that  and  be- 
cause he  loves  her  in  the  way  that  should  make  a 
happy  marriage,  and  is  very  unhappy  about  her.  I 
did  think  at  first  that  it  would  be  best  that  he  should 
get  over  it,  because  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  was 
offended  by  the  way  in  which  you  had  received  him, 
and  didn't  see  how  that  could  be  got  over.  But  I 
have  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket.  Let  him  go  to 
America,  as  it  has  been  arranged,  and  stipulate,  if 
you  like,  that  nothing  further  shall  be  done  or  said, 
until  he  comes  back  again — or  for  six  months.  Then, 
if  they  are  both  of  the  same  mind,  let  us  make  the 
best  of  it,  Mr.  Grafton,  and  acknowledge  that  they 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  267 

are  two  people  who  are  meant  to  marry.  Won't 
you  have  it  that  way  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say  no,"  said  Grafton.  "  But,  you 
know,  Madame,  you  have  brought  another  considera- 
tion into  the  situation.  He  is  to  be  free,  I  take  it, 
to  pay  his  addresses  to  somebody  else,  if  he  feels 
inclined,  and  that,  I  suppose,  was  what  you  had  in 
your  mind  when  you  persuaded  him  to  go  to  America. 
It's  only  because  I  hate  seeing  my  little  daughter 
unhappy  that  I  am  giving  way.  If  he  changes 
his  mind,  during  the  next  six  months,  and  she 
doesn't " 

"  She  will  be  more  unhappy  than  ever,  I  suppose. 
Yes,  there  is  that  risk.  It  happens  always  when  two 
people  are  kept  apart  in  the  hope  of  one  of  them 
changing  their  mind." 

He  laughed,  and  rose  to  take  his  farewell.  "  What 
I  shall  tell  my  daughter  is  that  she  must  consider  it 
over  for  the  present,"  he  said.  "  But  if  he  makes 
an  offer  for  her  again  next  year,  I  shall  reconsider 
it." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  do  more,  Mr.  Grafton," 
she  said. 

Caroline,  only,  met  her  father  at  the  station.  He 
was  disappointed  that  Beatrix  hadn't  come.  His 
mind  had  been  lighter  about  her  than  for  some  time, 
as  he  had  travelled  down.  It  had  been  greatly  dis- 
turbing him  to  be  at  issue  with  this  much-loved  child 
of  his,  and  to  lose  from  her  all  the  pretty  ways  of 


268  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

affection  that  had  so  sweetened  his  life.  He  knew 
that  he  had  given  way  chiefly  because  the  results  of 
his  holding  out  against  her  were  hardly  supportable 
to  herself.  She  had  the  '  pull '  over  him,  as  the  one 
who  loves  least  always  has  in  such  a  contest.  His 
weapons  were  weak  in  his  hands.  But  he  did  not  mind 
much ;  for  there  was  the  prospect  of  getting  back  again 
to  happy  relations,  and  that  counted  for  more  than 
anything.  She  would  be  grateful  to  him,  and  give 
him  her  love  again. 

He  could  not  have  felt  quite  like  this  about  it  if 
he  had  given  in  entirely  because  he  wanted  to  please 
Beatrix.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should  find  some 
other  justification  for  himself;  and  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  find.  If  Lassigny  still  wanted  to  marry  her 
after  six  months'  parting  and  she  wanted  it  too,  it 
would  be  unreasonable  to  object  on  the  grounds  that 
he  had  taken.  His  dislike  of  Lassigny,  which  had  not 
existed  at  all  before,  had  died  down.  Seen  in  the  light 
of  his  mother's  faith  in  him,  he  was  a  figure  more  allied 
to  the  suitor  that  Grafton  would  have  accepted  with- 
out such  questionings  as  his  foreign  nationality  had 
evoked.  For  the  time  being  he  could  think  of  an 
eventual  marriage  without  shrinking.  But  this  state 
of  mind  was  probably  helped  by  the  consideration  that 
anything  might  happen  in  six  months.  It  was  at  least 
a  respite.  There  was  no  need  to  worry  now  about 
what  should  come  after. 

He  told  Caroline  what  had  happened  as  they  drove 
home  together.      He  had  said  nothing  beforehand   of 


TWO  CONVERSATIONS  269 

his  going  up  to  see  Lady  Handsworth.  He  had  not 
wanted  again  to  have  Beatrix's  hopes  raised,  and  to 
suffer  the  chill  of  her  disappointment. 

"  Everybody  seems  to  think  that  I'm  most  unreason- 
able," he  said.  "  I'm  half-beginning  to  think  so  myself. 
I  suppose  B  will  forget  all  about  what's  been  happening 
latel}^  when  I  tell  her,  won't  she.?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  darling,"  said  Caroline.  "  She  loves  you 
awfully.  She'll  be  just  what  she  always  has  been  to 
you." 

"  Oh  well,  that's  all  right  then.  I  shall  be  precious 
glad  to  go  back  to  the  old  state  of  things.  I  may  have 
been  unfair  to  her  in  one  or  two  points,  but  I'm  sure 
I've  been  right  in  the  main.  If  there's  to  be  nothing 
settled  for  six  months  that's  all  I  can  ask.  I  think  I 
should  have  been  satisfied  with  that  at  first.  At  least 
I  should  have  accepted  it." 

"  So  would  B.     She  said  so." 

"Yes,  I  know.  You  told  me.  How  jolly  it  is  to 
get  down  here  after  London !  We're  all  going  to  enjoy 
ourselves  at  Abington  again  now.  Let's  get  up  early 
to-morrow,  shall  we.'*  " 

The  early  risings  had  been  given  up  of  late.  The 
edge  of  pleasure  in  the  new  life  and  the  new  place  had 
become  blunted.  But  it  all  seemed  bright  again  now, 
and  the  country  was  enchanting  in  the  yellow  evening 
light. 

So  was  the  house  when  they  reached  it.  September 
was  half-way  through,  and  though  the  days  were  warm 
and  sunny,  there  was  a  chill  when  the  sun  had  gone 


270  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

down.  A  wood  fire  was  lit  in  the  long  gallery,  which 
with  curtains  closed,  lamps  and  candles  lit,  and  masses 
of  autumn  flowers  everywhere  about  it,  was  even  more 
welcoming  than  in  its  summer  state. 

Grafton  sat  there  with  Beatrix  on  a  sofa  before  the 
fire.  Her  head  was  on  his  shoulder  and  his  arm  was 
round  her.  She  cried  a  little  when  he  told  her,  but  she 
was  very  happy.  She  was  also  very  merry  through- 
out the  evening,  but  alternated  her  bursts  of  merri- 
ment with  the  clinging  tenderness  towards  him  which 
he  had  so  missed  of  late.  It  was  only  when  he  was 
alone  in  his  room  that  a  cold  waft  came  over  his  new- 
found contentment.  He  had  forgotten  all  about 
Lassigny  for  the  time  being.  Could  he  ever  accept 
Lassigny  as  part  of  all  this  happy  intimate  family 
life?  He  would  have  to,  if  Beatrix  were  to  get  what 
she  wanted,  and  were  still  to  remain  allied  to  it.  But 
Lassigny  hardly  seemed  to  fit  in,  even  at  his  best.  He 
was  all  very  well  as  a  guest;  but  when  they  were  alone 

together,  as  they  had  been  this  evening' Oh,  if 

only  B  could  see  her  mistake ! 


CHAPTER    XIX 

MOLLIE  WALTER 

It  was  a  wet  windy  morning.  Mollie  Walter  sat  with 
her  needlework  in  the  little  drawing-room  of  Stone 
Cottage,  and  looked  disconsolately  through  the  French 
window  at  the  havoc  that  was  being  wrought  among  the 
late  summer  flowers  in  the  garden.  It  was  a  bright 
little  tight  little  garden,  with  flower  borders  round  a 
square  lawn,  and  ground  for  vegetables  beyond  a  privet 
hedge.  A  great  walnut  tree  overshadowed  it,  and  the 
grass  was  already  littered  with  twigs  and  leaves.  Such 
a  garden  had  to  be  kept  '  tidy  '  at  all  costs,  and  Mollie 
was  wondering  how  she  should  be  able  to  manage  it, 
when  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves  should  begin  in  earnest. 
Her  mother  was  in  bed  upstairs,  with  one  of  her  mild 
ailments,  which  never  amounted  to  actual  illness.  Mol- 
lie had  left  her  to  sleep  for  an  hour,  and  was  hoping 
for  a  visit  from  Beatrix,  to  relieve  her  loneliness.  She 
had  not  minded  being  much  alone  until  lately,  but  now 
that  she  had  more  real  friends  than  she  had  ever  had  in 
her  life  she  wanted  them  constantly. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  bell,  and  Mollie  went  out  to 
open  the  door.  Yes,  it  was  her  dear  Beatrix,  looking 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  though  her  long  raincoat 
was  buttoned  up  beneath  her  chin,  and  only  her  flower- 

871 


272  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

like  face  could  be  seen.  But  it  was  shining  with  happi- 
ness and  laughter,  as  she  struggled  with  the  wind  to 
get  her  umbrella  down,  before  entering  the  little  hall. 

"  Oh,  what  weather !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  the  door  was 
shut  behind  her.  "  But  I  had  to  come  to  tell  you, 
Moll.  It's  all  right.  My  darling  old  Daddy  has  come 
to  his  senses.     I'm  not  angry  with  him  any  more." 

The  two  girls  embraced  warmly.  "  I  knew  you'd  be 
pleased,"  said  Beatrix,  laughing  out  of  pure  lightness 
of  heart,  as  she  took  off  her  coat.  "  I  had  to  come  and 
tell  you.    Oh,  I'm  as  happy  as  a  queen." 

Presently  they  were  sitting  together  by  the  window, 
and  Beatrix  was  telling  her  story.  "  I  don't  mind  the 
six  months  a  bit,"  she  said  when  she  had  finished.  "  I 
should  have,  at  first,  but  I  don't  now.  It's  getting  out 
of  all  the  horridness  at  home  that  I'm  so  glad  of.  I 
hated  not  being  friends  with  Dad ;  I  hated  it  much  more 
than  he  thought  I  did." 

"  But  he  was  unreasonable,"  said  Mollie,  who  had 
not  seen  much  of  this  disinclination  during  the  past 
weeks. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Well,  perhaps  he  was,  but  there 
were  excuses  for  him.  He  does  love  me,  and  hated  the 
idea  of  losing  me.  I  believe  he'd  have  been  the  same 
about  anybody.  Anyhow,  it's  all  over  now,  and  I've 
forgiven  him.  I'm  going  to  reward  him  by  being  very 
good.  I  shan't  talk  about  Rene  at  all,  except  some- 
times to  you,  m}'  dear.  When  the  six  months  are  over 
and  he  comes  again.  Dad  will  have  got  used  to  the 
idea.     He  must  like  him,  you  know,  really.     He  is  so 


MOLLIE  WALTER  273 

nice,  and  so  good.  The  idea  of  him  being  like  a  French- 
man in  a  horrid  novel !  Men  arc  rather  like  babies 
in  what  they  can  believe  about  each  other,  aren't  they? 
I  know  a  lot  about  men  now,  having  two  such  nice  ones 
to  love  as  Rene  and  Daddy.  Oh,  I'm  awfully  happy 
now,  Moll." 

"  I'm  so  glad,"  said  Mollie  sympathetically.  "  And 
six  months  isn't  such  an  awful  time  to  wait.  But 
don't  you  think  that  if  you  say  nothing  about  him  Mr. 
Grafton  will  tliink  j^ou've  forgotten  him,  and  be  very 
disappointed  when  he  finds  you  haven't.''  " 

Beatrix  laughed.  "  I  expect  that's  what  he  wants, 
poor  darling !  "  she  said.  "  Perhaps  I  shall  say  a 
little  word  now  and  then.  And  Caroline  will  know 
that  I  love  him  just  as  much  as  ever.  Daddy  will  find 
out  about  it  from  her.  He  always  does  talk  over 
everything  with  her." 

"  Is  she  very  glad  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  She  has  to  take  Dad's  part,  but  she's 
awfully  sympathetic,  reall}',  and  I  don't  think  she  has 
ever  really  understood  what  all  the  fuss  was  about. 
Nobody  could,  of  course,  because  there  isn't  anything 
to  make  a  fuss  about.  The  dear  old  Dragon  thinks 
Dad  must  be  right,  but  then  she's  old,  and  I  sup- 
pose she  has  never  loved  anybody  very  much  and 
doesn't  know  what  it's  like.  Caroline  doesn't  either, 
though  she  thinks  she  does.  But  we  know,  don't  we, 
Mollie.?" 

Mollie  suddenly  took  up  the  work  that  had  been  lying 
on  her  lap,  and  her  face  went  red  as  she  looked  down 


274  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

at  it.  "  I  ought  to  know,  by  the  amount  I've  listened 
to  about  it  from  you,"  she  said. 

Beatrix  laughed  at  her  mischievously.  "  I  don't 
think  you'll  hear  very  much  more,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
contented  now.  I  feel  comfortable  all  over  me.  I  am 
going  to  begin  to  enjoy  myself  again.  I  shall  go  away 
on  some  visits  soon,  but  I  don't  want  to  just  yet,  be- 
cause I  love  being  here,  now  that  everything  is  all  right 
at  home." 

Mollie's  blush  had  died  down.  She  left  off  using  her 
needle  and  looked  at  Beatrix.  "  Are  you  sure  you  love 
him  just  as  much  as  ever  you  did.''  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Beatrix.  "  It 
doesn't  leave  off  like  that,  you  know.  But  I  know 
how  to  wait.  I'm  much  wiser  than  people  think  I  am. 
I'm  thinking  of  him  all  the  time,  and  loving  him,  and 
I  know  he's  thinking  of  me.  He'll  be  so  happy  when 
his  mother  tells  him  that  he  may  come  and  ask  for  me 
again.  And  then  he'll  be  allowed  to  have  me,  and  we 
shall  both  be  as  happy,  as  happy  all  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  It's  lovely  to  look  forward  to.  It's  what  makes 
me  not  mind  waiting  a  bit — or  only  a  very  little  bit — 
now  and  then." 

Mollie  took  up  her  work  again.  "  If  it  were  me,  I 
think  I  should  want  to  hear  from  him  sometimes,"  she 
said,  "  or  to  see  him.  And  you  did  feel  like  that  at 
first." 

"  I  know  I  did.  Daddy  not  understanding,  and  put- 
ting everything  wrong,  made  me  sore  and  hurt  all  over, 
and  with  everybody.     I  was  horrid  even  to  Caroline, 


MOLLIE  WALTER  275 

who  is  always  so  sweet.  I  think  I  was  with  you  too, 
a  little — just  at  first." 

"  No,  you  never  were  with  me.  But  you  were  with 
him,  though  you  tried  not  to  show  it.  I  never  said 
so  before,  because  I  didn't  want  to  trouble  you." 

"Did  it  seem  to  you  like  that?"  Beatrix  said 
thoughtfully.  "  I'm  so  happy  now  that  I've  forgotten. 
Well,  I  suppose  at  first  I  was  hurt  with  him  too.  I 
couldn't  understand  his  giving  me  up  so  easily.  It 
seemed  to  me  like  that.  But,  of  course,  it  wasn't.  I 
ought  to  have  trusted  him.  I  think  you  must  trust 
the  people  you  love,  even  if  you  don't  .understand. 
You  see  he's  been  dying  for  me  all  the  time.  Mme.  de 
Lassigny  coming  to  Dad  like  that,  and  telling  him — it's 
like  having  a  window  opened.  I  can  see  him  now,  want- 
ing me,  just  as  I  want  him.  Perhaps  I  was  a  little 
doubtful  about  it,  but  I  ought  not  to  have  been.  I 
shan't  be  any  more.    Oh,  I  do  trust  him,  and  love  him." 

There  had  been  another  ring  at  the  front  door  bell 
while  she  had  been  talking,  and  now  Mrs.  Mercer  was 
shown  into  the  room. 

The  little  lady's  manner  was  combined  of  effusiveness 
and  nervousness.  She  had  come  to  see  Mrs.  Walter, 
if  she  was  well  enough,  but  wouldn't  hear  of  her  being 
disturbed  if  she  was  resting.  She  could  easily  come  at 
another  time.  She  was  so  pleased  to  see  Beatrix  look- 
ing so  well.  But  what  a  horrid  change  in  the  weather ! 
It  did  look  as  if  the  summer  had  come  to  an  end  at 
last.  She  had  really  thought  of  lighting  a  fire  this 
morning.    No,  she  wouldn't  sit  down.    She  had  heaps  of 


276  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

things  to  do.  If  Mrs.  Walter  couldn't  see  her  she 
would  come  in  later. 

Mollie  thought  her  mother  would  be  pleased  to  see 
her,  and  went  upstairs.  Mrs.  Mercer  did  consent  to  sit 
down  until  she  returned,  but  her  manner  was  as  jerky 
as  before.  Beatrix  liked  her  and  would  have  been 
ready  to  tell  her  the  news  that  was  filling  her  mind. 
But  there  was  no  opportunity  before  Mollie  came  back. 
Mrs.  Mercer  went  upstairs  with  her,  after  shaking 
hands  warmly  with  Beatrix,  and  saying  that  she  sup- 
posed she  would  have  gone  before  she  came  down 
again. 

Mollie  looked  rather  disturbed  when  she  came  back 
into  the  room  and  shut  the  door  after  her.  Beatrix 
looked  at  her  as  she  took  her  seat  again,  and  said: 
"  Tell  me  about  it,  Moll.  You  know  we're  friends,  and 
I've  told  you  everything  about  myself,  and  about 
Rene." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Mollie,  with  an  intonation  of  re- 
lief. "  I've  told  you  everything  so  far.  I'm  afraid  she 
has  come  to  make  trouble." 

"  And  her  husband  has  sent  her,  I  suppose.  I  don't 
think  she'd  want  to  make  trouble  on  her  own  account. 
She's  nice." 

"  She  is  nice,  isn't  she.^  All  of  you  think  so,  don't 
you.'*  " 

"  Yes,  we  like  her.  If  it  weren't  for  her  horrid  hus- 
band we  should  like  her  very  much.  Unfortunately 
you  can't  divide  them.  She's  too  much  under  his 
thumb." 


MOLLIE  WALTER  277 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  put  it  quite  like  that,"  said 
Mollie  hesitatingly. 

"  No,  I  know  you  wouldn't,"  said  Beatrix  quickly. 
"  And  that's  why  you  can  never  get  it  quite  straight. 
He  is  horrid,  and  he's  horrid  in  nothing  more  than  the 
way  he  treats  j^ou." 

"  He  has  always  been  very  kind  to  me — to  me  and 
mother  too.  Really  kind,  I  mean,  up  till  a  little  time 
ago,  before  you  came — and  I  don't  want  to  for- 
get it." 

"  Yes,  kind,  I  suppose,  in  the  way  he'd  have  liked 
to  be  kind  to  us.  If  he  had  had  his  way  we  should 
have  been  bosom  friends,  and  he'd  have  half-lived  in 
the  house." 

"  We  hadn't  anything  to  give  him  in  return,  as  you 
would  have  had.  It  wasn't  for  that  he  was  kind 
to  us." 

"  My  dear  child,  you  know  he's  horrid — with  girls. 
It  was  quite  enough  that  you  were  a  pretty  girl." 

"  But  he  wasn't  like  that  with  me,  B.  I  should  have 
known  it  if  he  had  been." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,  my  dear.  Vera  Beckley  never 
knew  it  till  he  tried  to  kiss  her." 

Mollie  flinched  a  little  at  this  directness.  "  Don't 
you  think  she  may  have  made  too  much  fuss  about 
that.'*"  she  said.  "He's  years  and  years  older  than 
she  is — old  enough  to  be  her  father." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  that's  always  the  excuse.  Moll 
darling,  you  haven't  lived  enough  in  the  world.  You 
don't  know  men.     Besides  Vera  didn't  make  a  fuss. 


278  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Her  people  did,  because  they  happened  to  catch  him  at 
it.  It  must  have  been  a  glorious  occasion.  I  wish  I'd 
been  there.  She  only  told  us  about  it  in  strict  con- 
fidence, and  with  the  idea  of  opening  your  eyes." 

"  I  still  think  she  needn't  have  thought  so  much  of 
it ;  and  Mrs.  Beckley  needn't  have,  either.  Anyhow, 
he  has  never  kissed  me.  I  don't  think  I  should  have 
thought  anything  of  it  if  he  had." 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  would.  That's  what  they  rely 
on — men  like  that — horrid  old  men.  And  you  came 
here  just  after  that  had  happened  with  Vera.  Nat- 
urally he'd  be  a  bit  careful." 

"  I  think  you're  rather  horrid  about  it,  yourself,  B. 
I  certainly  have  been  angry  the  way  he  has  behaved 
since,  but  I  can't  see  that  that  comes  in,  and  I  don't 
believe  it  does." 

"  Well,  I'm  quite  sure  it  does.  But  what  do  you 
think  he  has  sent  Mrs.  Mercer  here  about.''  " 

Mollie  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "  Mrs.  Mercer  has 
been  talking  lately,"  she  said,  "  as  if  I  had  quite  given 
them  up  since  you  came.  You  know — little  bits  stuck 
in  every  now  and  then,  when  she's  talking  about  some- 
thing else.  '  Oh,  of  course,  we  can't  expect  to  see  much 
of  you  now,  Mollie.'  All  that  sort  of  thing.  It  makes 
me  uncomfortable.  And  she  wasn't  like  it  at  first.  She 
was  so  pleased  that  I  had  made  friends  with  you." 

"  He  has  talked  her  over  to  it.  That's  what  I  meant 
when  I  said  she  was  under  his  thumb.  Do  you  think 
he  has  sent  her  here  then  to  complain  to  you  mother?  " 

"  I  think  she  is  talking  me  over  with  mother." 


MOLLIE  WALTER  279 

"  But  Mrs.  Walter  was  angry  when  he  interfered, 
wasn't  she?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  was.  But  she  has  made  excuses  for 
him  since.  He  ought  not  to  have  said  what  he  did.  But 
he  meant  well." 

"  I  think  it  was  disgusting,  what  he  said ;  perfectly 
outrageous.  And  I  don't  think  he  meant  well  either. 
It's  all  part  of  what  I  tell  you.  He  hates  anybody 
having  anything  to  do  with  you  but  himself."  She 
changed  her  tone.  "  Moll  darling,"  she  said  coax- 
ingly,  "  you  might  tell  me  about  it.  I've  told  you 
everything  about  myself." 

Mollie  took  up  her  work,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  it.  "  Tell  you  about  what,"  she  asked.  "  I  am 
telling  you  everything." 

"  You  do  like  him,  don't  you.'*  It's  quite  plain  he 
likes  you." 

"What,  the  Vicar.?" 

Beatrix  laughed,  on  a  thrushlike  note  of  enjoyment. 
"  You  know  I  don't  mean  the  Vicar,"  she  said.  "  What 
happens  when  you  and  he  go  off  from  the  tennis  lawn 
together .''  " 

"  Oh,  you  mean  Bertie  Pemberton,"  said  Mollie,  en- 
lightened, but  still  keeping  her  eyes  on  her  work. 
"  They  are  going  to  give  me  some  plants  for  the  gar- 
den, and  we  have  been  choosing  them.  He  knows  a 
lot  about  flowers." 

Beatrix  laughed  again.  "  Do  you  like  him,  Mollie.?  " 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do,"  said  Mollie.     "But  don't 


280  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

be  silly  about  it,  B,     Can't  a  girl  like  a  man  without — 

without You're    just    like    what    you    complain 

about  in  the  Vicar,  and  think  so  horrid  in  him." 

"  No,  I'm  not,  my  dear.  The  Vicar  takes  it  for 
granted  that  he  means  nothing  except  just  to  amuse 
himself  with  a  pretty  girl.  I  don't  think  that  at  all. 
I  know  the  signs.  I've  seen  more  of  the  world,  and  of 
men,  than  you  have,  Mollie.  I  know  by  the  way 
he  looks  at  you,  and  by  the  way  he  talks  about 
you." 

Mollie's  face,  which  she  never  once  raised,  was  pink. 
"  It's  very  kind  of  him  to  interest  himself  in  me,"  she 
said.     "  What  does  he  say.''  " 

Beatrix  laughed  again.  "  You're  awfully  sweet,"  she 
said  affectionately.  "  He  thinks  you're  so  much  nicer 
than  all  the  smart  young  women  in  London.  That  was 
one  for  me,  but  I  didn't  show  any  offence.  I  said  you 
were,  and  as  good  as  gold.  That  seemed  to  surprise 
him  rather,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  why  I  thought  so. 
He  wanted  to  hear  all  about  you.  I  think  your  ears 
must  have  burned.  He  thinks  you're  awfully  kind. 
That  was  his  great  word  for  you.  You  know,  I  think 
he's  awfully  nice,  Mollie.  All  the  Pembertons  are, 
when  you  get  down  beneath  the  noise  they  make. 
They  love  their  country  life,  and  all  the  nice  things 
in  it." 

Mollie  raised  her  eyes  at  last.  "  That's  what  I  do 
like  about  him,"  she  said,  speaking  steadily,  but  with 
the  blush  still  on  her  cheeks.  "  I  think  I've  found  out 
that  he  really  has   simple  tastes,  though   I  shouldn't 


MOLLIS  WALTER  281 

have  thought  it  at  first.  He  goes  about  a  lot  in 
London,  but  he  doesn't  really  care  about  it.  He 
says  he  makes  a  good  deal  of  money,  but  what  is 
the  good  of  money  if  you're  not  living  the  life  you 
want.?" 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  Beatrix's  eyes,  but  she  re- 
plied gravely :  "  That's  what  he  told  me.  He's  had 
enough  of  it.  He'd  like  himself  much  better  living  here 
on  his  allowance,  and  only  going  to  London  occasion- 
ally. I  think  if  you  were  to  advise  him  to  do  that, 
Mollie,  he  would." 

Mollie  took  up  her  work  again  hastily.  "  Oh,  I 
couldn't  very  well  advise  him  about  a  thing  like  that," 
she  said.     "  I  don't  know  enough  about  it." 

"  Hasn't  he  asked  your  advice .''  " 

"  No,  not  exactly.  He  has  only  just  mentioned  it, 
and  I  said " 

"What  did  you  say.?" 

"  I  said  perhaps  he  would  be  happier  living  quietly 
in  the  country.  I  thought  a  quiet  country  life  was  the 
nicest  of  all." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  very  quiet  where  any  of  the  Pem- 
bertons  were,  but " 

"  Oh,  but  they  only  talk  so  loud  because  old  Mr. 
Pemberton  is  so  deaf.  They  are  quite  different  when 
you  are  alone  with  one  of  them.  Nora  has  told  me  a 
lot  about  herself.  I  like  Nora  very  much,  and  I'm 
rather  sorry  for  her  in  a  way.  She  seems  so  inde- 
pendent and  satisfied  with  everything,  but  she  likes 
having  a  girl  friend,  all  the  same.     Of  course  I  don't 


282  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

love  her  as  I  do  you,  B ;  but  I  do  like  her,  awfully. 
It's  she  who's  really  my  friend  at  Grays." 

"  Is  it  ?  "  said  Beatrix,  and  laughed  again,  gently. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Mercer  was  heard  coming 
downstairs.  She  took  her  leave  on  the  same  note  of 
hurried  aloofness  as  that  on  which  she  had  entered, 
and  immediately  afterwards  Mrs.  Walter  knocked  on 
the  floor  of  her  room  above  in  summons  of  her  daughter. 

Beatrix  kissed  Mollie  good-bye.  "  Don't  be  fright- 
ened, darling,"  she  said.  "  We  can  easily  get  the  better 
of  Lord  Salisbury  between  us.  Come  to  tea  this  after- 
noon and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Mrs.  Walter,  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  dressing- jacket 
on  her  thin  frame,  looked  flustered.  "  I  think  there  is 
something  in  what  she  says,  Mollie  dear,"  she  said  at 
once.     "  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"  I  knew  she  had  come  to  talk  about  me,"  said  Mol- 
lie.    "  I  told  Beatrix  so." 

"  Well,  that  is  one  of  the  things,"  said  her  mother. 
"  Aren't  you  and  Beatrix  rather  inclined  to  encourage 
each  other  in  setting  yourself  against — against " 

"What,  against  the  Vicar,  Mother.?" 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  But  there's  Beatrix  certainly 
setting  herself  against  her  father's  wishes,  and " 

"  Oh,  but  Mr.  Grafton  has  given  way.  She  came  to 
tell  me  so.  She  is  not  to  see  M.  de  Lassigny  for  six 
months,  but  after  that  they  are  to  be  allowed  to  be 
engaged." 

Mrs.  AValter  was  rather  taken  aback.  "  Oh !  "  she 
said.    "  Mrs.  Mercer  didn't  know  that." 


MOLLIE  WALTER  283 

"  But  what  has  it  got  to  do  with  Mrs.  Mercer, 
Mother?  Or  with  the  Vicar? — because,  of  course,  it 
is  he  who  has  sent  her.  You  know  that  the  Graftons 
don't  like  the  way  in  which  he  tries  to  direct  them  in 
their  affairs.  I  told  you  that  they  had  told  me  that. 
Surely  it  isn't  for  him  or  Mrs.  Mercer  to  interfere  in 
such  a  thing  as  B's  engagement — and  to  try  to  do  it 
through  me !  " 

"  I  don't  think  they  have  any  idea  of  interfering, 
but  they  do  take  a  great  interest  in  you,  Mollie;  and, 
of  course,  they  were  everything  to  you  before  the 
Graftons  came.  I  can't  wonder  that  they  are  a  little 
hurt  that  you  make  such  a  very  intimate  friend  of 
Beatrix,  and  that  they  feel  themselves  shut  out  now. 
At  least — that  Mrs.  Mercer  does.  I  don't  think  it  is 
so  much  the  Vicar.  And  you  are  wrong  in  thinking 
that  he  sent  her.  She  said  expressly  that  she  came  of 
her  own  accord.  He  didn't  even  know  that  she  was 
coming." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Mollie.  She  had  a  dim  idea  that  he  had 
had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  her  coming,  all  the  same,  but 
did  not  express  the  doubt,  or  even  examine  it. 

"  Mollie  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walter,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  tone.  "  Is  there  anything  between  you  and 
young  Pemberton?  I've  hoped  you  would  have  said 
something  to  me.  But  you  know,  dear,  it  does  seem 
a  little  as  if  everything  were  for  Beatrix  Grafton 
now." 

Mollie  was  stricken  to  the  heart.  Her  mother's  thin 
anxious  face,  and  the  very  plainness  which  sits  heavily 


284  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

upon  women  who  are  middle-aged  and  tired,  when  they 
are  without  their  poor  armour  of  dress,  seemed  to  her 
infinitely  pathetic.  She  folded  her  mother  with  her 
warm  fresh  young  body.  "  Oh,  my  darling,"  she  said 
through  her  tears.  "  I  love  you  better  than  anybody 
in  the  world.  I  shall  never,  never  forget  what  3'ou've 
done  for  me  and  been  to  me.  I've  only  told  you  nothing 
because  there's  nothing  to  tell." 

Mrs.  Walter  cried  a  little  too.  She  had  struggled 
for  so  many  years  to  have  her  child  with  her,  and  it 
had  seemed  to  her,  with  the  struggle  over,  and  peace 
and  security  settling  down  upon  them  both  in  this  little 
green-shaded  nest  of  home,  that  she  had  at  last  gained 
something  that  would  fill  the  rest  of  her  days  with  con- 
tentment. '  Some  day  '  Mollie  would  marry ;  but  she 
had  never  looked  so  far  forward.  It  had  been  enough 
for  her  to  take  the  rest  and  the  love  and  companion- 
ship with  gratitude  and  an  always  increasing  sense  of 
safety  and  contentment  in  it.  But  it  had  already  be- 
come a  little  sapped.  She  was  glad  enough  that  her 
child  should  have  found  friends  outside,  as  long  as  she 
remained  unchanged  at  home,  but  the  friction  about  it 
had  disturbed  her  in  her  dreams  of  peace,  and  she 
wanted  to  be  first  with  her  daughter  as  long  as  she 
should  keep  her  with  her. 

Mollie  felt  something  of  all  of  this  on  her  behalf,  and 
it  brought  a  sense  of  compunction  to  her  generous 
young  heart.  She  loved  her  mother.  It  was  not  a 
case  between  them  of  satisfying  the  exigencies  of  a  par- 
ent out  of  a  sense  of  duty.     It  touched  her  deeply  that 


MOLLIE  WALTER  285 

her  mother  should  show  her  she  wanted  her,  and  she 
responded  instantly  to  the  longing. 

"  If  you  don't  want  me  to  go  to  Grays  any  more  I 
won't,"  she  said,  and  had  no  feeling  that  she  was  mak- 
ing any  renunciation  as  she  said  it. 

"Well  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Walter.  "I  do  think  it 
would  be  better  if  you  didn't  go  quite  so  often.  Every 
time  you  do  go  there  is  always  that  feeling  that  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  not — after  what  the  Vicar  said. 
I  was  annoyed  about  it  then,  but  perhaps  after  all  he 
saw  more  clearly  than  I  did.  He  shouldn't  have  sup- 
posed, of  course,  that  you  were  in  any  way  to  blame, 
and,  if  he  thought  that  I  was,  he  ought  to  have  said  so 
quietl}'  to  me  alone.  But  perhaps  it  is  true  that  by 
being  at  the  beck  and  call  of  people,  as  you  must  rather 
seem  to  be  to  outsiders,  considering  the  difference  there 

is  between  the  Pembertons  and  ourselves Don't 

you  see  what  I  mean,  dear.''  " 

"  Yes,  Mother,"  said  Mollie  submissively.  She  had 
a  sense  of  forlornness  as  she  said  it,  but  put  it  away 
from  her,  sitting  by  her  mother's  side  on  the  bed,  with 
her  arm  around  her  shoulders.  "  I  won't  go  there  so 
much.  I'll  never  go  unless  you  tell  me  that  you'd  like 
me  to.  I'm  afraid  I've  been  gadding  about  rather  too 
much,  and  neglecting  you,  darling.  But  you  know  I 
love  to  be  with  you  best  of  all.  We're  very  happy 
living  here  together,  aren't  we?" 

Her  tears  flowed  again,  and  once  more  when  she  left 
her  mother  to  rest  a  little  longer.  But  she  busied  her- 
self resolutely  about  the  house,  and  when  a  gleam  of 


286  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

sun  shone  through  the  scudding  clouds  thought  how 
happy  she  was  living  there  with  her  mother.  But  she 
did  not  feel  quite  so  happy  as  she  ought  to  have  done. 
It  was  as  if  she  had  closed  for  herself  a  window  in  the 
little  cottage,  which  opened  into  a  still  brighter  world. 


CHAPTER    XX 

A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  a 
fine  hunting  morning,  with  clouds  that  showed  no  im- 
mediate threat  of  rain,  and  a  soft  air  that  contained 
an  illusive  promise  of  spring.  Young  George,  looking 
out  of  his  bedroom  window,  found  life  very  good. 
Previous  Christmas  holidays  had  held  as  their  cul- 
mination visits  to  country  houses  in  which  he  might,  if 
he  were  lucky,  get  two  or  three  days'  hunting;  but 
hunting  was  to  be  the  staple  amusement  of  these  holi- 
days, with  a  young  horse  all  his  own  upon  which  his 
thoughts  were  set  with  an  ardour  almost  lover-like. 
He  was  to  shoot  too,  with  the  men.  His  first  gun  had 
been  ordered  from  his  father's  gun-maker,  and  Barbara 
had  told  him  that  it  had  already  come,  and  was  lying 
snugly  in  its  baize-lined  case  of  new  leather,  with  his 
initials  stamped  upon  it,  ready  for  the  family  present- 
giving  on  Christmas  morning.  Furthermore  there 
would  be  a  large  and  pleasant  party  at  the  Abbey  for 
Christmas,  and  other  parties  to  follow,  with  a  ball  in 
the  week  of  New  Year.  Young  George,  under  the  ma- 
turing influence  of  Jimmy  Beckley,  had  come  to  think 
that  a  grown-up  ball  might  be  rather  good  fun,  espe- 
cially in  one's  own  house,  and  with  country  neighbours 

287 


288  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

coming  to  it,  most  of  whom  one  knew.  There  would  be 
other  festivities  in  other  country  houses,  including  a 
play  at  Feltham  Hall,  which  Jimmy,  who  was  a  youth 
of  infinite  parts,  had  written  himself  during  the  fore- 
going term.  Kate  Pemberton,  to  whom  his  fancy  had 
returned  on  the  approach  of  the  hunting  season,  was  to 
be  asked  to  play  the  heroine,  with  himself  as  the  hero. 
There  were  also  parts  for  the  Grafton  girls  and  for 
Young  George,  who  had  kindly  been  given  permission 
to  write  his  own  up  if  he  could  think  of  anything  he 
fancied  himself  saying.  The  play  was  frankly  a  melo- 
drama, and  turned  upon  the  tracking  down  of  a  mur- 
derer through  a  series  of  strange  and  exciting  adven- 
tures. Young  George  had  first  been  cast  for  the  pro- 
fessional detective — Jimmy,  of  course,  playing  the  un- 
professional one,  who  loves  the  heroine — but,  as  no 
writing  up  of  the  part  had  prevented  it  being  apparent 
that  the  professional  detective  was  essentially  a  fool, 
he  had  changed  it  for  that  of  the  villain.  Young  George 
rather  fancied  himself  as  the  villain,  who  was  com- 
pounded of  striking  attitudes,  personal  bravery  and 
occasional  biographical  excursions  revealing  a  career 
of  desperate  crime,  to  which  he  had  added,  with  Jimmy's 
approval,  a  heart  not  altogether  untouched  by  gentler 
emotions.  Maggie  Williams  was  to  be  his  long-lost 
little  sister,  the  thought  of  whom  was  to  come  over 
him  when  he  was  stirred  to  his  blackest  crimes,  aided 
by  a  vision  of  her  face  through  transparent  gauze  at 
the  back  of  the  stage ;  and  she  was  to  appear  to  him  in 
person  on  his  deathbed,  and  give  him  a  chance  of  a 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  289 

reallj  effective  exit  from  a  troubled  and,  on  the  whole, 
thoroughly  ill-used  world.  It  would  be  great  fun, 
getting  ready  for  it  towards  the  end  of  the  holidays, 
and  would  agreeably  fill  in  the  time  that  could  not  be 
more  thrillingly  employed  in  the  open  air.  He  was  not 
sure  that  he  would  even  want  to  go  up  to  London  for 
the  few  nights'  play-going  that  had  been  suggested. 
There  would  be  quite  enough  to  do  at  Abington,  which 
seemed  to  him  about  the  j  oiliest  place  that  could  be 
found  in  England,  which  to  an  incipient  John  Bull  like 
Young  George  naturally  meant  the  world. 

The  meet  was  to  be  at  Wilborough.  The  whole 
Grafton  family  turned  out  for  it.  George  Grafton 
had  hunted  regularly  two  days  a  week  with  the  South 
Meadshire  since  the  opening  of  the  season,  and  the 
three  girls  had  been  almost  as  regular,  though  they  had 
all  of  them  been  away  on  visits  for  various  periods 
during  the  autumn.  Young  George  felt  proud  of  his 
sisters  as  he  saw  them  all  mounted.  He  had  not  thought 
that  they  would  show  up  so  well  in  circumstances  not 
before  familiar.  But  they  all  looked  as  if  horses  had 
been  as  much  part  of  their  environment  as  they  had 
been  of  the  Pemberton  girls,  though  in  their  young 
grace  and  beauty,  which  neither  hats  nor  habits  could 
disguise,  not  so  much  as  if  it  had  been  their  only 
environment. 

There  are  few  scenes  of  English  country  life  more 
familiar  than  a  meet  of  hounds,  but  it  can  scarcely 
ever  fail  to  arouse  pleasure  in  contemplation.  It  is 
something  so  peculiarly  English  in  its  high  seriousness 


290  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

over  a  matter  not  of  essential  importance,  and  its  gath- 
ering together  of  so  many  who  have  the  opportunities 
to  make  what  they  will  of  their  lives  and  choose  this 
ordered  and  ancient  excitement  of  the  chase  as  among 
the  best  that  life  can  offer  them.  If  the  best  that  can 
be  said  for  it  in  some  quarters  is  that  it  keeps  the  idle 
rich  out  of  mischief  for  the  time  being,  it  is  a  good 
deal  to  say.  The  idle  rich  can  accomplish  an  enormous 
amount  of  mischief,  as  well  as  the  rich  who  are  not  idle, 
and  perhaps  accomplish  rather  less  in  England  than 
elsewhere.  For  a  nation  of  sportsmen  is  at  least  in 
training  for  more  serious  things  than  sport,  and  cour- 
age and  bodily  hardness,  some  self-discipline,  and  readi- 
ness to  risk  life  and  limb,  are  attributes  that  are  not 
to  be  gained  from  every  form  of  pleasure.  There  was 
not  a  boy  or  a  young  man  among  all  those  who  gath- 
ered in  front  of  Wilborough  House  on  that  mild  winter 
morning  to  enjoy  themselves  who  did  not  come  up  to 
the  great  test  a  few  years  later.  The  pleasures,  and 
even  the  selfishness,  of  their  lives  were  all  cast  behind 
them  without  a  murmur;  they  were  ready  and  more 
than  ready  to  serve. 

But  the  great  war  had  not  yet  cast  its  shadow  over 
the  mellowed  opulent  English  country.  Changes  were 
at  work  all  round  to  affect  the  life  mirrored  in  its 
fair  chart  of  hall  and  farm,  village  and  market-place, 
park  and  wood  and  meadow,  even  without  that  great 
catastrophe  looming  ahead.  But  the  life  still  went  on, 
essentially  unchanged  from  centuries  back.  From  the 
squire  in  his  hall  to  the  labourer  in  his  cottage,  they 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  291 

were  in  relation  to  each  other  in  much  the  same  way  as 
their  forefathers  had  been,  living  much  the  same  lives, 
doing  much  the  same  work,  taking  much  the  same 
pleasures.     For  the  end  of  these  things  is  not  yet. 

Wilborough  was  a  great  square  house  of  stone, 
wrapped  round  by  a  park  full  of  noble  trees,  as  most 
of  the  parks  in  that  rich  corner  of  Meadshire  were. 
Its  hall  door  stood  widely  open,  and  there  was  constant 
coming  and  going  between  the  hospitalities  within  and 
the  activities  without.  On  the  grass  of  the  park  and 
the  gravel  of  the  drive  stood  or  moved  the  horses  which 
generations  of  care  and  knowledge  had  brought  to  the 
pitch  of  perfection  for  the  purpose  for  which  they 
would  presently  be  employed,  and  their  sleek  well- 
tempered  beauty  would  have  gladdened  the  eye  of  one 
who  knew  least  about  them.  The  huntsman  and  whips 
came  up  with  the  hounds — a  dappled  mob  of  eager, 
restless  or  dogged,  free-moving  muscle  and  intelligence, 
which  also  filled  the  eye.  There  were  motor-cars,  car- 
riages and  smart-looking  carts,  and  a  little  throng  of 
people  of  all  sorts  and  conditions.  The  scene  was  set, 
the  characters  all  on  the  stage,  and  there  was  England, 
in  one  of  its  many  enchanting  time-told  aspects. 

Old  Sir  Alexander  Mansergh,  in  a  well-worn  pink 
coat  of  old-fashioned  cut,  was  in  front  of  the  house  as 
the  party  from  Abington  Abbey  rode  up.  He  was 
welcoming  his  guests  with  a  mixture  of  warmth  and 
ferocity  peculiarly  English.  He  was  an  old  bear,  a 
tyrant,  an  ignoramus,  a  reactionary.  But  his  tenants 
respected  him,  and  his  servants  stayed  with  him.    There 


292  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

was  a  gleam  in  his  faded  old  eyes  as  he  greeted  the 
Grafton  family,  with  the  same  gruffness  as  he  used 
towards  everybody  else.  He  liked  youth,  and  beauty, 
and  these  girls  weren't  in  the  least  afraid  of  him,  and 
by  their  frank  treatment  brought  some  reflection  of 
the  happy  days  of  his  youth  into  his  crusty  old  mind — 
of  the  daj^s  when  he  had  not  had  to  wrap  himself  up 
in  a  mantle  of  grumpiness  as  a  defence  against  the 
shoulders  of  the  world,  which  turn  from  age.  He  had 
laughed  and  joked  with  ever^^body  then,  and  nobody 
had  been  afraid  of  him. 

"  My  son  Richard's  at  home,"  he  said.  "  Want  to 
introduce  him  to  you  girls.  All  the  nice  girls  love  a 
sailor,  eh?  " 

This  was  Sir  Alexander's  *  technique,'  as  the  Graftons 
had  it.  Nice  girls  must  always  be  running  after  some- 
body, in  the  world  as  the  old  bashaw  saw  it.  But  it 
did  not  offend  them,  though  it  did  not  exactly  recom- 
mend '  my  son  Richard  '  to  them. 

Of  the  three  girls  only  Barbara  accepted  Sir  Alex- 
ander's pressed  invitation  to  '  come  inside.'  Caroline 
and  Beatrix,  comfortably  ensconced  in  their  saddles, 
preferred  to  stay  there  rather  than  face  the  prospect 
of  mounting  again  in  a  crowd.  But  before  the  move 
was  made  Lady  Mansergh  waddled  down  the  house 
steps  accompanied  by  a  young  man  evidently  in  tow, 
whom  she  presented  to  them  forthwith,  with  an  air  that 
made  plain  her  expectation  that  more  would  come  of  it. 
"  My  stepson,  Richard — Captain  Mansergh,"  she  said, 
beaming  over  her  broad  countenance.     "  He  knows  who 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  293 

all  of  you  are,  my  dears,  for  I've  never  stopped  talking 
of  you  since  he  came  home.  But  in  case  there's  any 
mistake,  this  is  Caroline  and  this  is  Beatrix  and  this  is 
Barbara;  and  if  there's  one  of  them  you'll  like  better 
than  the  other,  well,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  which 
it  is.  And  this  is  Mr.  Grafton,  and  Young  George. 
If  Young  George  was  a  girl  I  should  say  the  same  of 
him." 

Captain  Mansergh  was  not  so  affected  to  awkward- 
ness by  this  address  as  might  have  been  expected,  but 
shook  hands  cheerfully  all  round  and  produced  the 
necessary  introductory  remarks  with  great  readiness. 
He  was  not  so  young  on  a  closer  inspection  as  his 
trim  alert  figure  had  seemed  to  indicate.  His  open 
rather  ugly  face  was  much  weathered,  but  a  pair  of 
keen  sailor's  eyes  looked  out  of  its  chiselled  roughness, 
and  his  clean-cut  mouth  showed  two  rows  of  strong 
white  teeth.  He  was  taller  than  most  sailors,  but 
carried  his  calling  about  him  even  in  his  smart  hunting- 
kit.  He  was  likeable  at  first  sight,  and  the  Grafton 
girls  liked  him,  as  he  stood  and  talked  to  them, 
in  spite  of  the  obvious  fact  that  they  were  on 
exhibition,  and  that  one  or  other  of  them  was  expected 
to  show  more  than  liking  for  him  at  very  short 
notice. 

They  discussed  it  frankly  enough  between  themselves 
later  on.  "  It  can't  be  me,  you  know,  because  I'm  al- 
ready engaged,"  said  Beatrix,  and  it  can't  be  Barbara, 
because  she's  too  young.  So  it  must  be  you,  Caroline, 
and  I  don't  think  you  could  do  much  better.      He's 


294*  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

really  nice,  and  he  won't  be  grumpy  and  bearish  like  old 
Sir  Alexander  when  he  gets  old.  That's  very  impor- 
tant. You  must  look  ahead  before  you're  caught.  Of 
course  when  you  are  caught  nothing  makes  any  dif- 
ference. If  I  thought  Rene  was  going  to  turn  into  a 
grump  when  he  gets  old  I  shouldn't  mind.  At  least  I 
should  mind,  but  I  shouldn't  want  not  to  marry  him. 
But  I  know  he  won't.  I  don't  think  my  son  Richard 
will  either.     He's  much  too  nice." 

"  If  neither  of  you  want  him  he  might  do  for  me," 
said  Barbara  reflectively.  "  But  I  think  I'd  rather 
wait  for  a  bit.  Dad  likes  him  very  much.  But  I  don't 
think  he  wants  him  for  Caroline." 

"  He  doesn't  want  anybody  for  any  of  us,"  said 
Caroline.  "  He  wants  to  keep  us.  Most  fathers  would 
only  be  too  glad  to  get  one  of  us  off,  but  he  isn't  like 
that.  If  he  likes  him  to  come  here,  I'm  sure  it  isn't 
with  any  idea  of  that  sort." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Barbara  oracularly. 

Pressed  to  explain,  she  advanced  the  opinion  that 
their  father  hoped  Richard  Mansergh  would  fall  in 
love  with  Beatrix,  and  she  with  him ;  but  the  idea  was 
scouted  by  Beatrix  almost  with  violence.  She  should 
love  Rene,  she  said,  as  long  as  she  lived,  and  would 
never,  never  give  him  up.  She  even  became  a  little 
cross  about  it.  She  thought  that  her  father  was  not 
quite  keeping  to  the  bargain.  He  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  talk  to  him  about  Rene,  for  whenever  she 
tried  to  do  so  his  face  altered  and  shut  down.  She 
wanted  to  be  able  to  talk  to  him  about  everything,  but 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  295 

how  could  he  expect  it  if  he  cut  himself  off  from  the 
chief  thing  in  her  life?  Well,  she  didn't  care.  She 
loved  Dad,  of  course,  and  always  should,  but  it  must 
make  a  difference  later  on,  if  he  wasn't  going  to  accept 
the  man  she  had  chosen  for  her  own,  the  man  whom  she 
loved  and  trusted. 

This  little  outburst,  which  was  received  by  Caroline 
with  a  mild  expostulation,  and  by  Barbara  in  silence, 
indicated  a  certain  constraint  that  was  growing  up 
between  Grafton  and  Beatrix.  He  had  given  way,  but 
he  could  not  get  used  to  the  idea  of  her  marriage,  nor 
take  it  as  a  thing  settled  and  bound  to  happen.  The 
six  months'  of  parting  and  silence  must  surely  work 
some  change.  Beatrix's  bonds  would  be  loosened,  she 
would  see  with  clearer  eyes. 

But  more  than  half  of  the  time  of  waiting  was  over, 
and  Beatrix  showed  no  sign  of  having  changed.  She 
only  did  not  talk  of  her  lover  to  him  because  he  made 
himself  such  an  unreceptive  vessel  for  her  confidence. 
It  was  as  she  said :  if  she  did  so,  his  face  altered  and 
shut  down ;  and  this  was  the  expressive  interpretation 
of  his  state  of  mind,  which  shrank  from  the  disagree- 
able reminder  of  these  two,  so  far  apart  in  his  estima- 
tion, considering  themselves  as  one. 

His  thoughts  of  Lassigny  had  swung  once  more 
towards  complete  antagonism.  He  seemed  to  him  far 
older  than  he  really  was,  and  far  more  immoral  than 
he  had  any  just  reason  to  suppose  him  to  be.  He  re- 
sented the  assurance  with  which  this  outsider  had 
claimed  his  sweet  white  child  as  his  fitting  mate,  and 


296  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

even  the  wealth  and  station  that  alone  had  given  him 
that  assurance.  And  he  also  resented  the  ease  with 
which  he  had  accepted  his  period  of  banishment.  He 
would  have  been  angry  if  Lassigny  had  tried  to  com- 
municate with  Beatrix  directly,  and  would  not  have 
liked  it  if  he  had  sought  to  do  so  indirectly.  But  he 
would  not  have  liked  anything  that  Lassigny  did  or 
didn't  do.  The  image  of  him,  coming  to  his  mind,  when 
perhaps  he  had  been  able  to  forget  it  for  a  time, 
jerked  him  down  into  a  state  of  gloom.  After  a  mo- 
ment's silence  his  face  would  often  be  darkened  by  a 
sudden  frown,  which  did  not  suit  its  habitual  agreeable 
candour,  and  had  seldom  before  been  seen  on  it.  It  had 
been  his  habit  to  take  his  morning  cup  of  tea  into  one 
of  the  children's  rooms  and  chat  with  them,  sitting  on 
the  bed,  while  they  drank  theirs.  But  his  visits  to 
Beatrix  were  always  shorter  than  the  others,  because 
she  had  a  photograph  of  Lassigny  always  propped  up 
on  the  table  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  so  that  she  could 
see  it  when  she  first  woke  in  the  morning;  and  he 
couldn't  stand  that.  He  never  sat  down  on  her  bed, 
because  he  could  see  the  face  of  the  photograph  from 
it,  but  walked  about  the  room,  or  sat  in  a  chair 
some  way  off.  And  of  course  she  knew  the  reason, 
but  wouldn't  put  away  the  photograph  before  he 
came. 

This  was  one  of  her  little  protests  against  his  atti- 
tude; and  there  were  others.  She  also  could  make  her 
pretty  face  shut  down  obstinately,  and  did  so  when- 
ever the  conversation  might  have  led  naturally  to  men- 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  297 

tlon  of  her  lover.  She  almost  succeeded  in  creating 
the  impression  that  it  was  she  who  refused  to  have 
his  name  mentioned.  At  times  when  the  family  contact 
seemed  to  be  at  its  most  perfect,  and  the  happy  oc- 
cupied life  of  the  Abbey  was  flowing  along  in  its 
pleasant  course,  as  if  its  inmates  were  all-sufficing  to 
one  another,  it  would  be  brought  up  with  a  sudden 
check.  There  was  an  irritating  factor  at  work,  like 
a  tiny  stone  in  a  shoe,  that  settles  itself  where  it  can- 
not be  felt  except  now  and  then,  and  must  eventually 
be  got  rid  of.  But  this  influence  could  not  be  got  rid 
of.     That  was  Grafton's  trouble. 

If  only  he  had  known  that  on  the  night  before  the 
meet  at  Wilborough  Beatrix  had  forgotten  to  prop 
Lassigny's  photograph  up  against  the  emergency 
candlestick  on  her  table !  It  had  been  in  its  usual  place 
when  he  had  gone  into  her  room  with  the  news  that  it 
was  a  fine  hunting  morning,  a  kiss  and  a  word  of  cen- 
sure for  sleepy  little  girls  who  let  their  tea  grow  cold. 
He  often  began  in  that  way,  recognising  her  childish- 
ness, and  the  fact  that  so  short  a  time  ago  she  had 
been  all  his.  Then  the  sight  of  that  alien  figure,  to 
whom  she  had  ceded  the  greater  part  of  his  rights  in 
her,  who  could  in  no  way  be  brought  into  the  fabric  of 
his  life  and  his  love,  would  stiffen  him,  dimming  his 
sense  of  fatherhood  and  protection.  Antagonism  was 
taking  its  place,  and  a  sense  of  injury.  After  all,  he 
had  given  way.  She  had  v/hat  slie  wanted,  or  would 
have  when  the  period  of  probation  was  over,  with  no 
further   opposition   from  him.     Why   couldn't   she  be 


298  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

towards  him  as  she  had  been  before?  She  was  changing 
under  his  eyes.  It  was  only  rarely  now  that  he  could 
think  of  her  as  his  loving  devoted  little  daughter. 

The  worst  of  it,  for  him,  was  that  he  had  now  no 
confidants  to  whom  he  could  express  himself  as  to  the 
unhappiness  and  dissatisfaction  that  was  working  in 
him.  Caroline,  whose  love  for  him  and  dependence 
upon  him  was  an  assuagement,  yet  did  not  seem  to  be 
wholly  on  his  side.  She  seemed  to  be  plaj'ing,  as  it 
were,  a  waiting  game.  The  affair  would  be  settled,  one 
way  or  the  other,  when  the  six  months  had  run  their 
course.  It  was  better  not  to  talk  of  it  in  the  mean- 
time. She  was  all  sympathy  with  him  when  he  showed 
himself  hurt  and  troubled  by  Beatrix's  changed  atti- 
tude, and  he  knew  that  she  '  spoke  '  to  Beatrix  about  it. 
But  that  did  no  good,  and  'he  could  not  use  one  daugh- 
ter as  a  go-between  with  the  other.  Miss  Waterhouse, 
having  sagely  expressed  herself  at  the  time  when  the 
affair  was  still  in  flux,  had  retired  again  into  her  shell. 
Worthing  also  took  it  for  granted  that,  as  he  had  con- 
ditionally given  way,  there  was  no  more  that  could 
profitably  be  said  about  it  until  the  time  came  for  his 
promise  to  be  redeemed ;  and  perhaps  not  even  then.  If 
Lassigny  should  come  to  be  accepted  as  a  son-in-law, 
the  obvious  thing  for  him  to  do  was  to  make  the  best 
of  him.. 

Ah,  but  Worthing  had  no  daughter  of  his  own.  He 
didn't  know  how  hard  it  was  to  take  second  place, 
and  to  depend  for  all  the  solacing  signs  of  affection 
from  a  beloved  child  upon  whether  or  no  he  was  pre- 


A  MEET  AT  WILBOROUGH  299 

pared  to  accept   a  disliked   and  mistrusted  figure  as 
merged  into  hers. 

It  is  true  that  the  Vicar  had  offered  him  his  sym- 
pathy. At  first  Grafton  had  thought  that  he  had  mis- 
judged him  when  he  had  come  to  him  with  a  tale  of  how 
troubled  he  had  been  that  Mollie  Walter  seemed  to 
have  been  backing  up  Beatrix  in  setting  herself  against 
his  will,  how  his  wife  thought  the  same,  and — although 
he  would  never  have  thought  of  asking  her  to  do  so — 
had  of  her  own  accord  spoken  to  Mrs.  Walter  about  it. 
Grafton  had  been  a  little  disturbed  at  finding  that  the 
Vicar  seemed  to  know  '  all  about  everything ' ;  but  the 
Vicar  had  expressed  himself  so  rightl^^,  commending 
him  for  the  stand  he  had  taken,  and  the  reasons  for  it, 
that  any  doubts  he  may  have  come  to  feel  as  to  whether 
he  had  been  justified  in  his  opposition  to  Lassigny's 
suit,  had  been  greatly  lessened.  The  Vicar  thought  as  he 
did  about  it ;  even  rather  more  strongly.  The  innocence 
of  girlhood  was  a  most  precious  thing,  and  a  father  who 
should  insist  that  it  should  mate  with  nothing  but  a 
corresponding  innocence  was  taking  a  stand  that  all 
men  who  loved  righteousness  must  thank  him  for.  As 
an  accredited  and  official  lover  of  righteousness  the 
Vicar  perhaps  rather  overdid  his  sympathy,  which  re- 
quired for  expression  more  frequent  visits  to  the  Abbey 
and  a  return  to  a  more  intimate  footing  there  than  he 
had  lately  enjoyed.  Grafton  did  not  want  to  be  for- 
ever discussing  the  general  question  of  male  misdeeds 
and  feminine  innocence  with  a  man  who  appeared  from 
his  conversation  to  have  shed  all  traces  of  human  in- 


300  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

firmity  except  that  of  curiosity.  And  there  was  a  good 
deal  too  much  of  Molh'e  Walter  brought  into  it.  What 
had  Mollie  Walter  to  do  with  it,  or  he  with  her.?  Or 
indeed  the  Vicar  with  her,  if  it  came  to  that  .'*  It  seemed 
that  he  feared  the  same  sort  of  danger  for  her  that 
Grafton  had  so  rightly  and  courageously  warded  off 
for  Beatrix.  Grafton  knew  what  and  whom  he  re- 
ferred to,  and  put  aside  his  preferred  confidence.  He 
also  began  to  close  up  to  intimate  references  to  Bea- 
trix's innocence,  and  came  to  dislike  Beatrix's  name  on 
the  Vicar's  lips. 

The  end  of  it  had  been  that  the  Vicar  had  been  re- 
turned to  his  Vicarage,  politely  but  indubitably,  with 
nothing  gained  but  another  topic  of  acrid  conversation 
with  his  wife. 

But  there  was  one  other  person  to  whom  Grafton 
was  beginning  to  unburden  himself. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING 

The  big  dining-room  of  Wilborough  Hall,  with  a  table 
at  one  end  of  it  as  a  buffet,  was  full  of  people  eating 
and  drinking  and  talking  and  laughing.  As  Grafton 
and  Barbara  and  Young  George  went  in,  they  saw  few 
there  whom  they  did  not  know,  and  among  the  crowd 
there  were  many  who  could  already  be  counted  as 
friends. 

No  gathering  of  this  sort  could  be  found  in  a  city, 
nor  in  many  countries  outside  England,  where  the 
land  is  loved,  and  lived  on,  by  those  who  could  centre 
themselves  elsewhere  if  they  chose.  To  the  Graftons, 
as  new-comers,  the  people  gathered  here  from  a  radius 
of  some  miles  were  beginning  to  be  known  in  the  actuali- 
ties of  their  lives  as  acquaintances  in  London  never 
could  be  known,  except  those  who  could  be  called 
friends.  Each  of  them  represented  something  recog- 
nised and  fixed,  which  gave  them  an  interest  and  an 
atmosphere.  They  belonged  here  and  there,  and  their 
belongings  coloured  them,  more  perhaps  even  than  their 
characters  or  achievements. 

Achievement,  indeed,  was  scarcely  represented. 
There  were  two  members  of  the  House  of  Lords,  neither 

801 


302  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

of  whom  ever  visited  that  assembly,  and  a  member  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  who  never  spoke  there  if  he 
could  possibly  help  it.  There  were  a  few  undis- 
tinguished barristers,  and  some  as  yet  undistinguished 
soldiers.  To  the  world  outside  the  circle  to  which  these 
people  mostly  belonged,  scarcely  a  name  represented 
there  would  have  been  familiar;  and  yet  in  a  similar 
gathering  anywhere  in  England  the  names  of  many  of 
them  would  have  been  known,  and  would  have  meant 
something. 

What  they  would  have  meant,  among  other  things,  if 
worked  back  to  beginnings,  would  have  been  the  owner- 
ship of  England.  If  the  people  in  this  room,  most  of 
them  unimportant  if  tested  by  their  capacity  to  achieve 
power  among  their  fellows  by  unaided  effort,  had  been 
taken  as  a  centre,  and  the  circle  widened,  and  widened 
again  by  the  inclusion  of  all  those  related  by  birth  or 
marriage,  it  would  eventually  have  covered  all  but  a 
spot  here  and  there  of  the  map  of  the  United  Kingdom, 
and  the  great  mass  of  the  inhabitants  of  these  islands 
would  have  been  left  outside. 

In  charging  the  whole  of  this  particular  assembly 
with  a  notable  absence  of  achievement,  exception  must 
be  made  for  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese,  who  was  there, 
however,  as  a  visitor,  not  being  in  the  habit  of  attend- 
ing such  gatherings  of  his  flock  in  his  pastoral  capacity. 
Even  he  might  not  have  reached  his  gaitered  eminence 
if  he  had  not  belonged  by  birth  to  the  sort  of  people 
represented  here,  for,  in  spite  of  the  democratisation 
of  the  Church,  the  well-born  clergyman,  if  he  follows 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  303 

the  lines  of  promotion  and  is  not  noticeably  lacking  in 
ability,  still  has  a  slight  '  pull.' 

The  lines  of  promotion,  however,  are  other  than  they 
were  a  generation  or  two  ago.  This  bishop  had  begun 
his  work  in  a  large  town  parish,  and  had  kept  to  the 
crowded  ways.  Hard  work  and  a  capacity  for  organi- 
sation are  the  road  to  success  in  the  Church  to-day. 
Rich  country  rectories  must  be  looked  at  askance  until 
they  can  be  taken  as  a  secondary  reward,  the  higher 
prizes  having  been  missed.  Even  when  the  prizes  are 
gained,  the  highest  of  them  no  longer  bring  dignified 
leisure.  A  bishop  is  a  hard-working  official  in  these 
latter  days,  and,  if  overtaken  by  the  natural  desires  of 
advancing  years  for  rest  and  contemplation,  must 
occasionally  cast  wistful  eyes  upon  the  reward  he  might 
have  gained  if  he  had  run  second  in  the  race  instead  of 
first. 

The  Bishop  of  Meadshire  was  an  uncle  by  marriage 
of  Mrs.  Carruthers,  of  Surley  Park,  who  had  brought 
him  over,  with  other  guests,  to  enjoy  this,  to  him  un- 
wonted, scene.  Cheerful  and  courteous,  with  a  spare 
figure,  an  excellent  digestion  and  a  presumably  un- 
troubled conscience,  he  was  well  qualified  to  gain  the 
fullest  amount  of  benefit  from  such  relaxations  as  a 
country  house  visit,  with  its  usual  activities  and  pas- 
times, affords. 

He  was  standing  near  the  door  with  his  niece  when 
the  Graftons  entered  the  room,  and  Grafton  and  Bar- 
bara and  Young  George  were  immediately  introduced 
to  him.     This  was  done  with  the  air  of  bringing  to- 


304.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

gether  particular  friends  of  the  introducing  part3\ 
Each  would  have  heard  much  of  the  other,  and  would 
meet  for  the  first  time  not  as  complete  strangers. 

The  Bishop  was,  indeed,  extr&mely  cordial.  A  bright 
smile  lit  up  his  handsome  and  apostolic  features,  and 
he  showered  benignity  upon  Barbara  and  Young  George 
when  it  came  to  their  turn.  "  Then  we've  met  at  last," 
he  said.  "  I've  been  hearing  such  a  lot  about  you. 
Indeed,  I  may  be  said  to  have  heard  hardly  anything 
about  anybody  else,  since  I've  been  at  Surley." 

Ella  Carruthers  had  her  hand  on  Barbara's  shoul- 
der. "  I'm  sure  you're  not  disappointed  in  my  new 
friends,"  she  said,  giving  the  girl  an  affectionate 
squeeze.     "  This  one's  the  chief  of  them." 

Barbara  appeared  a  trifle  awkward,  Avhich  was  not 
her  usual  habit.  She  liked  Mrs.  Carruthers,  as  did 
the  whole  family.  They  had  all  been  together  con- 
stantly during  the  past  few  weeks,  ever  since  the  re- 
turned wanderer  had  come  over  to  the  Abbey  to  call, 
and  had  shown  herself  a  fit  person  to  be  taken  imme- 
diately into  their  critical  and  exclusive  society.  She 
had  triumphantly  passed  the  tests.  She  was  beautiful 
and  gay,  laughed  at  the  same  sort  of  jokes  as  they 
did,  and  made  them,  liked  the  same  sort  of  books,  and 
saw  people  in  the  same  sort  of  light.  She  was  also 
warm-hearted  and  impulsive,  and  her  liking  for  them 
was  expressed  with  few  or  no  reserves.  It  had  been 
amply  responded  to  by  all  except  Barbara,  who  had 
held  off  a  little,  she  could  not  have  told  why,  and 
would  not  have  admitted  to  a  less  degree  of  acceptance 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  305 

of  their  new  friend  than  licr  sisters.  Perhaps  Ella 
Carruthers  had  divined  the  slight  hesitation,  for  she 
had  made  more  of  Barbara  than  of  Caroline  or  Bea- 
trix, but  had  not  yet  dissolved  it. 

As  for  the  rest  of  them,  they  were  always  chanting 
her  virtues  and  charm.  For  each  of  them  she  had 
something  special.  With  Caroline  she  extolled  a  coun- 
try existence,  and  didn't  know  how  she  could  have  kept 
away  from  her  nice  house  and  her  lovely  garden  for 
so  long.  She  was  quite  sincere  in  this.  Caroline  would 
soon  have  discovered  it  if  she  had  been  pretending. 
She  did  love  her  garden,  and  worked  in  it.  And  she 
led  the  right  sort  of  life  in  her  fine  house,  entertain- 
ing many  guests,  but  never  boring  herself  if  they  dwin- 
dled to  one  or  two,  nor  allowing  herself  to  be  crowded 
out  of  her  chosen  pursuits.  She  read  and  sewed  and 
played  her  piano,  and  was  never  found  idle.  Caroline 
and  she  were  close  friends. 

Beatrix  had  made  a  confidant  of  her,  and  had  re- 
ceived much  sympathy.  But  she  had  told  her  outright 
that  she  could  not  have  expected  her  father  to  act 
otherwise  than  he  had,  and  Beatrix  had  taken  it  from 
her,  as  she  would  not  have  taken  it  from  any  one 
else. 

Miss  Waterhouse  she  treated  as  she  was  treated 
by  her  own  beloved  charges,  with  affection  and  respect 
disguised  as  impertinence.  She  was  young  enough  and 
witty  enough  to  be  able  to  do  so.  Miss  Waterliouse 
thought  her  position  somewhat  pathetic — a  young  girl 
in  years,  but  with  so  much  on  her  shoulders.     She  had 


306  ABINQTON  ABBEY 

come  to  think  it  admirable  too,  the  way  in  which  she 
fulfilled  her  responsibilities,  which  never  seemed  to  be 
a  burden  on  her.  Her  guardian,  who  was  also  her 
lawyer,  advised  her  constantly  and  was  frequently  at 
Surley,  but  her  bailiff  depended  on  her  in  minor  mat- 
ters, and  she  was  always  accessible  to  her  tenants,  and 
beloved  by  them. 

It  was  in  much  the  same  way  that  Grafton  had  come 
to  regard  her.  In  the  way  she  lived  her  life  as  mistress 
of  her  large  house,  and  of  a  property  which,  though  it 
consisted  of  only  half  a  dozen  farms,  would  have  over- 
taxed tiie  capacity  of  many  women,  she  was  a  paragon. 
And  yet  she  was  scarcely  older  than  his  own  children — 
might  have  been  his  child  in  point  of  years — and  had 
all  the  charm  and  light-heartedness  of  her  youth.  She 
had  something  more  besides — a  wise  woman's  head, 
quick  to  understand  and  respond.  He  was  so  much 
the  companion  of  his  own  children  that  a  friend  of 
theirs  was  usually  a  friend  of  his.  Many  of  his  daugh- 
ters' girl  friends  treated  him  in  much  the  same  way 
as  if  he  had  been  Caroline  and  Beatrix's  brother  instead 
of  their  father.  Ella  Carruthers  did.  It  was  difficult 
sometimes  to  imagine  that  she  was  a  widow  and  the 
mistress  of  a  large  house,  so  much  did  she  seem  to 
belong  to  the  family  group.  In  their  united  inter- 
course he  had  not  had  many  opportunities  of  talking 
to  her  alone,  and  had  never  so  far  sought  them.  But 
on  two  or  three  occasions  they  had  found  themselves 
tete-a-tete  for  a  time,  and  he  had  talked  to  her  about 
what  was  filling  his  mind,  which  was  Beatrix  and  her 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  307 

love-afFair,  and  particularly  her  changing  attitude 
towards  himself. 

She  had  taken  his  side  warmly,  and  had  given  him 
a  sense  of  pleasure  and  security  in  her  sympathy.  Also 
of  comfort  in  what  had  become  a  considerable  trouble 
to  him.  She  knew  how  much  Beatrix  loved  him,  she 
said.  She  had  told  her  so,  and  in  any  case  she  could 
not  be  mistaken.  But  she  was  going  through  a  difficult 
time  for  a  girl.  He  must  have  patience.  Whichever 
way  it  turned  out  she  would  come  back  to  him.  How 
could  she  help  it,  he  being  what  he  had  been  to  her 
all  her  life.'' 

As  to  the  possibility  of  its  turning  out  in  any  way 
but  one,  she  avowed  herself  too  honest  to  give  him  hope, 
much  as  she  would  have  liked  to  do  so.  Beatrix  was  in 
love  with  the  man,  and  had  not  changed;  nor  would 
she  change  within  the  six  months  allowed  her.  Whether 
her  lover  would  come  for  her  again  when  the  time  was 
up  was  another  question.  She  could  tell  no  more  than 
he.  But  he  must  not  allow  himself  to  be  disappointed  if 
he  did.  He  had  accepted  him  provisionally,  and  must 
be  prepared  to  endorse  his  acceptance.  Surely  he 
would  get  used  to  the  marriage,  if  it  came  off !  And 
the  mutual  absorption  of  a  newly-married  couple  did 
not  last  for  ever.  She  could  speak  from  experience 
there.  She  had  adored  her  own  guardian,  in  whose 
house  she  had  been  brought  up  from  infancy.  She 
fancied  she  must  have  loved  him  at  least  as  much  as 
most  girls  loved  their  own  fathers ;  yet  when  she  had 
been  engaged  to  be  married,  and  for  a  time  afterwards, 


308  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

she  had  thought  very  little  of  him,  and  she  knew  now 
that  he  had  felt  it,  though  he  had  said  nothing.  But 
after  a  time,  when  she  had  wanted  him  badly,  she  had 
found  him  waiting  for  her,  just  the  same  as  ever;  and 
now  she  loved  him  more  than  she  had  done  before. 

Grafton  was  not  unimpressed  by  this  frank  dis- 
closure, though  the  not  unimportant  fact  that  the  lady's 
husband  had  proved  himself  a  rank  failure  in  his  matri- 
monial relations  had  been  ignored  in  her  telling  of  the 
story.  And  it  would  be  a  dismal  business  if  the  full 
return  of  his  child  to  him  were  to  depend  upon  a  like 
failure  on  the  part  of  the  man  she  should  marry.  Cer- 
tainly he  didn't  Avant  that  for  her.  If  she  should  marry 
the  fellow  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  she  would  be  happy 
with  him,  and  he  himself  would  do  nothing  to  come  be- 
tween them.  Nevertheless,  the  reminder  that  the  fer- 
vour of  love  need  not  be  expected  to  keep  up  to  concert 
pitch,  when  the  sedative  effect  of  marriage  had  had  time 
to  cool  it,  did  bring  him  some  consolation,  into  which 
he  did  not  look  too  closely.  It  would  be  soothing  if 
the  dear  child  were  to  discover  that  her  old  Daddy 
stood  for  something,  after  all,  which  she  could  not  get 
even  from  her  husband,  and  that  he  would  regain  his 
place  apart,  and  be  relieved  of  the  hard  necessity  of 
taking  in  and  digesting  an  alien  substance  in  order  to 
get  any  flavour  out  of  her  love  for  him.  He  never 
would  and  never  could  get  used  to  the  fellow ;  he  felt 
that  now,  and  told  the  sj'mpathetic  lady  so.  She  re- 
plied that  one  could  get  used  to  anything  in  this  life, 
and  in  some  cases  it  was  one's  duty  to  do  so.     She  was 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  309 

no  mere  cushiony  receptacle  for  his  grievances.  She 
had  a  mind  of  her  own,  and  the  slight  explorations  he 
had  made  into  it  pleased  and  interested  him.  He  was 
not  so  loud  in  his  praises  of  her  as  his  daughters,  but 
it  was  plain  that  he  liked  to  see  her  at  the  Abbey,  and 
it  was  always  safe  to  accept  an  invitation  for  him  to 
Surley  if  he  was  absent  when  it  was  given. 

Mrs.  Carruthers  was  not  riding  that  morning.  Out 
of  deference  to  her  exalted  guest  and  various  others  of 
weight  and  substance,  invited  to  meet  him,  she  was 
hunting  on  wheels.  Some  of  them  would  view  such  epi- 
sodes of  the  chase  as  could,  with  luck,  be  seen  from 
the  seats  of  a  luxurious  motor-car,  but  she  was  driving 
his  lordship  himself  in  her  ponj'-cart,  quite  in  the  old 
style  in  vogue  before  the  scent  of  the  fox  had  begun 
to  dispute  its  sway  in  the  hunting-field  with  that  of 
petrol.  It  was  years  since  the  Bishop  had  come  as 
close  as  this  to  one  of  the  delights  of  his  youth,  and 
he  showed  himself  mildly  excited  by  it,  and  talked  to 
Barbara  about  hounds  and  horses  in  such  a  way  as  to 
earn  from  her  the  soubriquet  of  "  a  genuine  lamb." 

He  was  too  important,  however,  to  be  allowed  more 
than  a  short  conversation  with  one  of  Barbara's  age, 
and  was  reft  from  her  before  she  could  explore  very  far 
into  the  unknown  recesses  of  a  prelatical  mind.  She 
was  rewarded,  however,  for  the  temporary  deprivation 
— she  had  other  opportunities  on  the  following  day — 
by  coming  in  for  Ella  Carruther's  sparkhng  description 
of  the  disturbance  caused  in  the  clerical  nest  of  Surley 
by  her  uncle's  visit. 


310  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  When  thej  heard  he  was  really  coming,"  she  was 
saying  to  Grafton,  "  they  redoubled  their  efforts.  Poor 
young  Denis — who  really  looks  sweet  as  a  curate, 
though  more  deliciously  solemn  than  ever — was  sent 
up  with  a  direct  proposal.  Couldn't  I  let  bygones  be 
bygones  for  the  good  of  the  community?  I  said  I 
didn't  know  what  the  community  had  to  do  with  it, 
and  I  couldn't  forgive  the  way  they  had  behaved.  He 
said  they  were  sorry.  I  said  they  had  never  done  or 
said  a  thing  to  show  it.  We  fenced  a  little,  and  he 
went  back  to  them.  Would  you  believe  it,  they  swal- 
lowed their  pride  and  sent  me  a  letter.  I'll  show  it  you. 
You  never  read  such  a  letter.  They  asked  me  to  dinner 
at  the  end  of  it, — to-night — and  perhaps  I  should  be 
able  to  bring  his  lordship.  I  thanked  them  for  their 
letter,  and  refused  their  invitation — of  course  politely. 
I  asked  Denis  to  dinner  last  night,  and  they  let  him 
come,  but  I  think  he  must  have  had  a  struggle  for  it, 
because  he  looked  very  unhappy.  My  uncle  is  going 
to  see  poor  old  Mr.  Cooper  this  afternoon,  and,  of 
course,  they'll  make  a  dead  set  at  him;  but  it  will  be 
a  bedside  scene,  and  that's  all  they're  going  to  get  out 
of  it." 

"  Aren't  you  a  trifle  feline  about  the  poor  ladies  ?  " 
asked  Grafton. 

"  They  are  feline,  if  you  like.  Aren't  they,  Bar- 
bara ?  " 

"  They're  spiteful  old  cats,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
said  Barbara.  "  Did  you  ask  Lord  Salisbury  to 
dinner  ?  " 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  311 

"  No.  I  have  an  idea  that  my  uncle  wishes  to  have 
a  rest  from  the  clergy,  though  it's  as  much  as  his  place 
is  worth  to  say  so.  The  darling  old  thing!  He's  thor- 
oughly enjoying  himself.  I  believe  he  would  have 
hunted  to-day,  if  I  had  pressed  a  mount  upon  him." 

"Is  Denis  going  to  preach  at  him  to-morrow?" 
asked  Grafton. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Mr.  Mercer  offered  to  do  it 
in  the  afternoon,  but  Rhoda  and  Ethel  refused.  I  got 
that  out  of  Denis  himself,  who  is  too  deliciously  inno- 
cent and  simple  for  words.  If  it  weren't  for  Rhoda 
and  Ethel  I  really  think  I  should  make  love  to  my 
uncle  to  give  him  the  living  when  poor  old  Mr.  Cooper 
comes  to  an  end.  Perhaps  he  will  in  any  case.  A  lot 
hangs  upon  Denis's  sermon  to-morrow." 

"  I  expect  Rhoda  and  Ethel  have  written  it  for 
him,"  said  Barbara. 

"  Perhaps  one  of  them  will  dress  up  and  preach," 
suggested  Young  George. 

Barbara  looked  at  him  fondly.  "  Not  very  good, 
Bunting  dear,"  she  said.  "  He  does  much  better  than 
that  sometimes,  Ella.     He's  quite  a  bright  lad." 

Caroline  and  Beatrix  had  no  lack  of  society,  seated 
in  their  saddles  outside.  Richard  Mansergh,  after 
vainly  trying  to  get  them  to  let  him  fetch  them  some- 
thing to  keep  out  the  draught,  went  off  elsewhere,  but 
his  place  was  taken  by  others.  Bertie  Pemberton  came 
up  with  two  of  his  sisters,  all  three  of  them  conspicuous 
examples  of  the  decorative  value  of  hard  cloth,  and  it 
was  as  if  the  loud  pedal  had  suddenly  been  jammed 


312  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

down  on  a  piano.  Bertie  himself,  however,  was  not  so 
vociferous  as  usual,  and  when  his  sisters  suggested 
going  inside  said  that  he  was  quite  happy  where  he 
was.  This  was  on  the  further  side  of  Beatrix,  of  whom 
he  had  already  enquired  whether  anybody  had  brought 
over  Mollie  Walter.  Nobody  had,  and  he  said  it  was 
a  pity  on  such  a  day  as  this,  but  he  hoped  they'd  have 
some  fun  after  all.  Nora  and  Kate,  however,  were  not 
to  go  unaccompanied  to  their  refreshment.  Jimmy 
Beckley,  perched  on  a  tall  horse,  with  an  increased  air 
of  maturity  in  consequence,  offered  to  squire  them,  and 
they  went  off  with  him,  engaging  him  in  loud  chaff,  to 
which  he  responded  with  consummate  ease  and  assur- 
ance. 

It  was  evident  that  Bertie  Pemberton  had  something 
particular  to  say  to  Beatrix.  His  horse  fidgeted  and 
he  made  tentative  efforts  to  get  her  to  follow  him  in  a 
walk.  But  Beatrix's  mare  was  of  the  lazy  sort,  quite 
contented  to  stand  still  as  long  as  it  should  be  per- 
mitted her,  and  she  refused  to  put  her  in  motion,  though 
she  was  not  altogether  incurious  as  to  what  the  young 
man  wished  to  disclose.  She  thought  it  probable,  how- 
ever, that  he  would  make  his  attempt  later  on,  if  there 
should  be  any  period  of  hanging  about  the  covert  side, 
and  under  those  less  conspicuous  circumstances  she 
should  not  refuse  to  listen  to  him. 

Among  the  few  hardy  spirits  who  had  come  prepared 
to  follow  the  hounds  on  foot  was  Maurice  Bradby. 
Worthing  had  driven  him  over  in  his  dog-cart  and  after 
a   few    cheery    words    with   Caroline   and    Beatrix   had 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  313 

gone  inside.  Bradb^'  liad  not  followed  him,  but  as  the 
girls  were  just  then  surrounded  by  a  little  group  of 
people  he  had  hung  about  on  its  skirts,  evidently  wish- 
ing to  talk  to  them,  but  being  too  shy  to  do  so. 

This  young  man's  diffidence  had  begun  to  arouse 
comment  at  the  Abbey.  They  all  liked  him,  and  had 
shown  him  that  they  did.  There  were  times  when  he 
seemed  thoroughly  at  home  with  them,  and  showed 
qualities  which  endeared  him  to  the  active  laughter- 
loving  family.  Young  George  frankly  adored  him,  find- 
ing in  him  all  he  wanted  for  companionship,  and  with 
him  he  was  at  his  ease,  and  even  took  the  undisputed 
lead.  But  on  the  other  hand  Grafton  found  him  hang 
heav}',  on  the  few  occasions  when  they  had  to  be  alone 
together.  He  was  deferential,  not  in  any  way  that 
showed  lack  of  manly  spirit,  but  so  as  to  throw  all  the 
burden  of  conversation  on  his  host.  Grafton  found  it 
rather  tiresome  to  sit  with  him  alone  after  dinner.  It 
was  only  when  they  were  occupied  together,  in  the  gar- 
den or  elsewhere,  that  Bradby  seemed  to  take  up  ex- 
actly the  right  attitude  towards  him. 

The  girls  came  between  their  father  and  their 
brother.  Barbara  had  altered  her  first  opinion  of 
him.  There  was  still  something  of  the  boy  in  her;  she 
shared  as  far  as  she  was  permitted  in  the  pursuits  of 
Bradby  and  Bunting,  and  all  three  got  on  well  to- 
gether. The  two  other  girls  found  his  diffidence  some- 
thing of  a  brake  on  the  frank  friendship  the}'  were 
ready  to  accord  to  their  companions  among  young 
men.    Beatrix  was  most  outspoken  about  it.    Of  course 


314.  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

he  was  not,  in  his  upbringing  or  experience,  like  other 
young  men  whom  they  had  known.  In  London,  per- 
haps, they  would  not  have  wanted  to  make  a  par- 
ticular friend  of  him.  But  here  in  the  country  he 
fitted  in.  Why  couldn't  he  take  the  place  they  were 
ready  to  accord  him,  and  not  be  always  behaving  as 
if  he  feared  to  be  in  the  way? 

Caroline  was  softer.  She  agreed  that  his  shyness 
was  rather  tiresome,  but  thought  it  would  wear  off  in 
time.  It  was  better,  after  all,  to  have  a  young  man 
who  did  not  think  too  much  of  himself  than  one  who 
would  always  have  to  be  kept  in  his  place.  She  found 
his  love  for  nature  refreshing  and  interesting,  and  some- 
thing fine  and  genuine  in  him  that  made  it  worth  while 
to  cultivate  him,  and  have  patience.  Beatrix  would 
say,  in  answer  to  this,  that  she  hadn't  got  enough 
patience,  and  doubted  whether  the  results  would  make 
it  worth  while  to  exercise  it.  But  Beatrix  was  a  little 
oversharp  in  these  days,  and  what  she  said  needed  not 
to  be  taken  too  seriously. 

She  saw  Maurice  Bradby  standing  at  a  little  dis- 
tance off,  casting  shy  glances  at  them  as  if  he  wanted 
to  make  one  of  the  group  around  them,  but  lacked  the 
boldness  to  introduce  himself  into  it,  and  felt  a  spurt 
of  irritation  against  him.  Caroline  saw  him  too,  and 
presently,  when  the  group  had  thinned,  walked  her  horse 
to  where  he  was  standing.  He  received  her  with  a 
grateful  smile,  and  they  talked  about  the  day's  pros- 
pects and  his  chances  of  seeing  the  sport  on  foot,  and 
hers  of  a  good  run. 


A  FINE  HUNTING  MORNING  315 

The  people  who  had  been  refreshing  themselves  in- 
doors came  out,  mounted  their  horses  or  took  to  their 
carriages,  cars  and  carts,  while  the  huntsman  led  his 
bunched  and  trotting  hounds  down  the  drive,  and  the 
gay  cavalcade  followed  them  to  the  scene  of  their 
sport.  The  soft  grey  winter  sky  breathed  mild  mois- 
ture, the  tree  twigs  were  purple  against  it,  and  seemed 
already  to  be  giving  promise  of  spring,  though  the 
year  was  only  just  on  the  turn.  No  one  there  would 
have  exchanged  this  mood  of  England's  much  abused 
climate  for  the  flowery  deceptions  of  the  South,  or 
even  for  the  frosty  sparkle  of  Alpine  winters.  It  was 
a  fine  hunting  morning,  and  they  were  all  out  to  enjoy 
themselves,  in  the  way  that  their  forbears  had  enjoyed 
themselves  for  generations. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

ANOTHER  AFFAIR 

Bertie  Pemberton  stuck  close  by  Beatrix's  side  as 
they  trotted  easily  with  the  crowd  up  to  the  wood  which 
was  first  to  be  drawn. 

"  They  won't  find  anything  here,"  he  said ;  "  they 
never  do.  They'll  draw  Beeching  Copse  next.  Let's 
go  off  there,  shall  we.''     Lots  of  others  will." 

In  her  ignorance  and  his  assurance  of  what  was 
likely  to  happen,  she  allowed  herself  to  follow  his  lead. 
The  '  lots  of  others  '  proved  to  be  those  of  the  runners 
who  were  knowing  enough  to  run  risks  so  as  to  spare 
themselves,  and  a  few  experienced  horsemen  who  shared 
Bertie's  opinion ;  but  there  were  enough  of  them  to 
make  the  move  not  too  conspicuous.  Bertie  found  the 
occasion  he  wanted,  and  made  use  of  it  at  once. 

"  I  say,  I  know  you're  a  pal  of  Mollie  Walter's,"  he 
said.    "  Is  there  any  chance  for  me?  " 

Beatrix  was  rather  taken  aback  by  this  directness, 
having  anticipated  nothing  more  than  veiled  enquiries 
from  which  she  would  gain  some  amusement  and  in- 
terest in  divining  exactly  how  far  he  had  gone  upon 
the  road  which  she  thought  Mollie  was  also  traversing. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  that.''  "  she  said,  after  a  slight 
pause.     "  Why  don't  you  ask  her?  " 

316 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  317 

"  Well,  because  I  don't  want  to  make  a  fool  of  my- 
self.    I  believe  she  likes  me,  but  I  don't  know." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  find  out  for  you,  then.^"  she 
asked,  after  another  pause. 

"  I  thought  you'd  give  me  a  tip,"  he  said.  "  I  know 
you're  a  pal  of  hers.  I  suppose  she  talks  about  things 
to  you." 

"  Of  course  she  talks  about  things  to  me." 

"Yes?     Well!" 

She  kept  silence. 

"  Is  it  any  good.''  "  he  asked  again. 

"  How  should  I  know.?  "  asked  Beatrix.  "  You  don't 
suppose  she's  confided  in  me  that  she's  dying  for  love 
of  you!" 

He  turned  to  look  at  her.  Her  pretty  face  was  pink, 
and  a  trifle  scornful.  "  Oh,  I  say !  "  he  exclaimed. 
*'  What  have  I  said  to  put  you  in  a  bait.''  " 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  her.''  "  asked  Beatrix. 

"  I  should  think  you  could  see  that,  can't  you?  "  he 
said,  with  a  slight  droop.  "  I  don't  know  that  I've 
taken  particular  pains  to  hide  it." 

"  Well  then,  why  don't  you  tell  her  so  ?  It's  the 
usual  thing  to  do,  isn't  it?  " 

He  laughed.  "  Which  brings  us  back  to  where  we 
were  before,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  any  encouragement," 
said  Beatrix.  "  If  jon  really  love  her,  and  don't  ask 
her  without  wanting  to  know  beforehand  what  she'll 
say — well,  of  course,  you  canH  really  love  her." 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  and  a  little  to  her  dismay, 


318  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

he  seemed  to  be  considering  this.  "  Well,  I  don't  want 
to  make  a  mistake,"  he  said.  "  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is. 
I  never  seem  to  get  beyond  a  certain  point  with  her.  I 
know  this,  that  if  she'd  just  give  me  a  little  something, 
I  should  be  head  over  ears.  Then  I  shouldn't  want  to 
ask  you  or  anybody.  I  should  go  straight  in.  That's 
how  it  is." 

Beatrix  was  interested  in  this  disclosure.  It  threw 
a  light  upon  the  mysterious  nature  of  man's  love,  as 
inflammable  material  which  needs  a  spark  to  set  it 
ablaze.  In  a  rapid  review  of  her  own  case  she  saw 
exactly  where  she  had  provided  the  spark,  and  the 
hint  of  a  question  came  to  her,  which  there  was  no 
time  to  examine  into,  as  to  which  of  the  two  really 
comes  to  a  decision  first,  the  man  or  the  woman. 

She  would  not,  however,  admit  to  him  that  it  was  to 
be  expected  of  a  girl  that  she  should  indicate  the  answer 
she  would  give  to  a  question  before  it  had  been  asked. 
She  also  wanted  to  find  out  if  there  was  any  feeling 
in  his  mind  that  he  would  not  be  doing  well  for  himself 
and  his  family  if  he  should  marry  Mollie.  On  her 
behalf  she  was  prepared  to  resent  such  an  idea, 
and  to  tell  him  quite  frankly  what  she  thought 
about  it. 

"  Don't  you  think  she's  worth  taking  a  little  risk 
about.''"  she  asked. 

"  She's  worth  anything,"  he  said  simply,  and  she 
liked  him  for  the  speech,  but  stuck  to  her  exploratory 
purpose. 

"  If  you've  made  it  so  plain  that  you  want  her,"  she 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  319 

said,  "  I  suppose  your  people  know  about  it.  What 
do  they  say  ?  " 

"Say?  They  don't  say  anything.  I've  paid  atten- 
tions to  young  women  before,  you  know.  It's  supposed 
to  be  rather  a  habit  of  mine." 

She  liked  this  speech  much  less.  "  Perhaps  that's 
why  Mollie  doesn't  accept  them  with  the  gratitude  you 
seem  to  expect  of  her,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  like  your 
way  of  talking  about  her." 

"Talking  about  her.''  What  do  you  mean?  I've 
said  nothing  about  her  at  all,  except  that  I  think  she's 
the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world.  At  least  I  haven't  said 
that,  but  I've  implied  it,  haven't  I?  Anyhow,  that's 
what  I  do  think." 

"  Haven't  you  thought  that  about  the  others  you're 
so  proud  of  having  paid  attention  to?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  I  was  proud  of  it.  How  you  do  take 
a  fellow  up.  Yes,  perhaps  I  have  thought  it  once  or 
twice.    I  don't  want  to  make  myself  out  what  I'm  not." 

He  was  dead  honest,  she  thought,  but  still  wasn't 
quite  sure  that  he  was  worthy  of  her  dear  Mollie ;  or 
even  that  he  was  enough  in  love  with  her  to  make  it 
desirable  that  he  should  marry  her.  But  Beatrix,  inno- 
cent and  childish  as  she  was  in  many  ways,  had  yet 
seen  too  much  of  the  world  not  to  have  her  ideas  touched 
by  the  worldly  aspects  of  marriage,  for  others,  at  least, 
if  not  for  herself.  Bertie  Pcmberton  would  be  a  very 
good  *  match '  for  Mollie ;  and  she  knew  already  that 
Mollie  *  liked '  him,  though  she  had  no  intention  of  tell- 
ing him  so. 


320  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  Will  3'our  people  like  your  marrying  Mollie — if  you 
(do?  "  she  asked. 

"  Like  it !  Of  course  they'll  like  it.  They're  devil- 
ish fond  of  her,  the  whole  lot  of  them.  Why  shouldn't 
they  like  it.?" 

She  didn't  answer,  and  he  repeated  the  question, 
"Why  shouldn't  they  like  it.?" 

"  I  thought  perhaps  they  might  want  you  to  marry 
somebody  with  money,  or  something  of  that  sort,"  she 
said,  forced  to  answer,  but  feeling  as  if  she  had  fixed 
herself  with  the  unworthy  ideas  she  had  sought  to  find 
in  him. 

He  added  to  her  confusion  by  saying:  "I  shouldn't 
have  thought  that  sort  of  thing  would  have  come  into 
your  head.  I  suppose  what  you  really  mean  is  that 
there'd  be  an  idea  of  my  marrying  out  of  my  beat,  so 
to  speak,  if  I  took  Mollie." 

"  If  you  tooh  Mollie !  "  she  echoed,  angry  with  her- 
self and  therefore  more  angr}'  with  him.  "  What  a 
way  to  talk !  I  think  Mollie's  far  too  good  for  you. 
Too  good  in  every  waj',  and  I  mean  that.  It's  only  that 
I  know  how  people  of  your  sort  do  look  at  things — and 
because  she  lives  in  a  little  cottage  and  you  in  a — Oh, 
you  make  me  angry." 

He  laughed  at  her.  There  was  no  doubt  about  his 
easy  temper.  "  Look  here,"  he  said.  "  Let's  get  it 
straight.  I'm  not  a  snob,  and  my  people  aren't  snobs. 
As  for  money — well,  I  suppose  it's  always  useful,  if 
it's  there;  but  if  it  isn't — well,  it's  going  to  be  all  the 
more  my  show.     There'll  be  enough  to  get  along  on. 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  321 

If  I  could  have  the  luck  to  get  that  girl  for  my  own, 
I  should  settle  down  here,  and  look  after  the  place, 
and  be  as  happy  as  a  king.  The  old  governor  would 
like  that,  and  so  would  the  girls.  And  they'd  all  make 
a  lot  of  her.  Everybody  about  here  who  knows  her 
likes  her,  and  I  should  be  as  proud  as  Punch  of  her. 
You  know  what  she's  like  yourself.  There's  nobody  to 
beat  her.  She's  a  bit  shy  now,  because  she  hasn't  been 
about  as  much  as  people  like  you  have;  but  I  like  her 
all  the  better  for  that.  She's  like  something — I  hope 
you  won't  laugh  at  me — it's  like  finding  a  jewel  where 
you  didn't  expect  it.  She's  never  been  touched — well, 
I  suppose  I  mean  she's  unspotted  by  the  world,  as  they 
read  out  in  church  the  other  day.  I  thought  to 
myself,  Yes,  that's  Mollie.  She  isn't  like  other  girls 
one  may  have  taken  a  fancy  to  at  some  time  or 
another." 

Beatrix  liked  him  again  now.  They  had  reached 
the  copse  where  the  next  draw  would  be  made,  and  were 
standing  in  a  corner  at  its  edge.  She  stole  a  glance 
at  him  sitting  easily  on  his  tall  horse  and  found  him 
a  proper  sort  of  man,  in  spite  of  his  lack  of  the  finer 
qualities.  Perhaps  he  did  not  lack  them  so  much  as  his 
very  ordinary  speech  and  behaviour  had  seemed  to  in- 
dicate. She  had  pictured  him  taking  a  fancy  to  Mollie, 
and  willing  to  gratify  it  in  passing  over  the  obvious 
differences  between  his  situation  in  the  world  and  hers. 
But  his  last  speech  had  shown  him  to  have  found  an 
added  attraction  in  her  not  having  been  brought  up  in 
his  world,  and  it  did  him  credit,  for  it  meant  to  him 


322  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

something  good  and  quiet  towards  which  his  thoughts 
were  turned,  and  not  at  all  the  unsuitabilit}'  which 
many  men  of  his  sort  would  have  seen  in  it. 

There  was  a  look  on  his  ordinary,  rather  unmeaning 
face  which  touched  Beatrix.  "  I  like  you  for  saying 
that,"  she  said  frankly.  "  It's  what  anybody  who 
can  see  things  ought  to  think  about  darling  Mollie. 
I'm  sorry  I  said  just  now  that  you  weren't  really  good 
enough  for  her." 

He  looked  up  and  laughed  again,  the  gravity  pass- 
ing from  his  face.  "  Well,  it  was  rather  rough,"  he 
said,  "  though  it's  what  I  feel  myself,  you  know. 
Makes  you  ashamed  of  having  knocked  about — you 
know  what  I  mean.  Or  perhaps  you  don't.  But  men 
aren't  as  good  as  girls.  But  when  you  fall  in  love 
with  a  girl  like  Mollie — well,  you  want  to  chuck  it  all, 
and  make  yourself  something  different — more  suitable, 
if  you  know  what  I  mean.  That's  the  way  it  takes  you ; 
or  ought  to  when  you're  really  in  love  with  somebody 
who's  worth  it." 

She  liked  him  better  every  moment.  A  dim  sense  of 
realities  came  to  her,  together  with  the  faintest  breath 
of  discomfort,  as  her  own  case,  always  present  with 
her  while  she  was  discussing  that  of  another,  presented 
itself  from  this  angle.  She  had  been  very  scornful  of 
Bertie's  frank  admission  that  there  had  been  others 
before  Mollie.  But  weren't  there  always  others,  with 
men.''  If  a  true  love  wiped  them  out,  and  made  the 
man  wish  he  had  brought  his  first  love  to  the  girl,  as 
he  so  much  revered  her  for  bringing  hers  to  him,  then 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  323 

the  past  should  be  forgiven  him ;  he  was  washed  clean 
of  it.  It  was  the  New  Birth  in  the  religion  of  Love. 
Mollie  represented  purity  and  innocence  to  this  ordi- 
nary unreflective  3'Oung  man,  and  something  good  in 
him  went  out  to  meet  it,  and  sloughed  off  the  unworthi- 
ness  in  him.  His  chance  of  regeneration  had  been 
given  him. 

"  If  you  feel  like  that  about  her,"  she  said,  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  meant  when  you  said  she  hadn't  given 
you  enough  encouragement  to  make  you  take  the  risk 
with  her." 

His  face  took  on  its  graver  look  again.  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  quite  know  what  I  meant  myself,"  he  said. 
"  I  suppose — in  a  way — it's  two  sorts  of  love.  At  least, 
one  is  mixed  up  with  the  other.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I 
can't  explain  things  like  that." 

But  Beatrix,  without  experience  to  guide  her,  but 
with  her  keen  feminine  sense  for  the  bases  of  things, 
had  a  glimmering.  The  lighter  love,  which  was  all  this 
young  man  had  known  hitherto,  would  need  response  to 
set  it  aflame.  He  was  tangled  in  his  own  past.  The 
finer  love  that  had  come  to  him  was  shrinking  and  fear- 
ful, set  its  object  on  a  pedestal  to  which  it  hardly  dared 
to  raise  its  eyes.  It  was  this  sort  of  love  that  raised  a 
man  above  himself  and  above  his  past.  Again  a  ques- 
tion insinuated  itself  into  her  mind.  Had  it  been 
given  in  her  own  case?  But  again  there  was  no  time 
to  answer  it. 

There  was  no  time,  indeed,  for  more  conversa- 
tion.    A    hulloa    and    a    bustle    at    the    further    edge 


324  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

of  the  wood  from  which  they  had  come  showed  it  to 
have  contained  a  prize  after  all.  The  stream  set  that 
way,  and  they  followed  it  with  the  hope  of  making  up 
for  the  ground  they  had  lost. 

For  a  time  they  galloped  together,  and  then  there 
came  a  fence  which  Bertie  took  easily  enough,  but 
which  to  Beatrix  was  somewhat  of  an  ordeal.  She  went 
at  it,  but  her  mare,  having  her  own  ideas  as  to  how 
much  should  be  asked  of  her,  refused ;  and  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  day,  with  her  blood  not  yet  warmed, 
Beatrix  did  not  put  her  at  it  again.  There  was  a 
gate  a  few  yards  off  which  had  already  been  opened, 
and  she  went  through  it  with  others.  In  the  meantime 
Bertie,  to  whom  it  had  not  occurred  that  she  would  not 
take  a  fence  that  any  of  his  sisters  would  have  larked 
over  without  thinking  about  it,  had  got  on  well  ahead 
of  her,  and  she  did  not  see  him  again. 

But  although  their  conversation  had  been  cut  short, 
all,  probably,  had  been  said  that  he  could  have  expected 
to  be  said.  Beatrix  thought  that  there  was  little  doubt 
now  of  his  proposing  to  Mollie,  and  perhaps  as  soon 
as  he  should  find  an  opportunity. 

Beatrix,  of  all  three  of  the  girls,  was  the  least  in- 
terested in  hunting.  When  she  realised  that  the  day 
had  opened  with  a  good  straight  run,  and  that  her  bad 
start  had  left  her  hopelessly  behind,  she  gave  it  up,  and 
was  quite  content  to  do  so.  A  little  piece  of  original 
thinking  on  her  part  had  led  her  to  take  a  different 
line  from  that  followed  by  most  of  those  who  had 
started  late  with  her,  but  it  had  not  given  her  the  ad- 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  325 

vantage  she  had  hoped  from  it.  Presently  she  found 
herself  quite  alone,  in  a  country  of  wide  grass  fields 
and  willow-bordered  brooks  which  was  actually  the  pick 
of  the  South  Mcadshire  country,  if  only  the  fox  had 
been  accommodating  enough  to  take  to  it. 

Recognising,  after  a  time,  that  she  was  hopelessly 
lost,  and  being  even  without  the  country  lore  that  would 
have  given  her  direction  by  the  softly  blowing  west 
wind,  she  gave  it  up  with  a  laugh  and  decided  to  return 
slowly  home.  She  would  anyhow  have  had  a  nice  long 
ride,  and  the  feminine  spirit  in  her  turned  gratefully 
towards  a  cosy  afternoon  indoors  with  a  book,  which 
would  be  none  the  less  pleasant  because  it  had  hardly 
been  earned. 

She  followed  tracks  across  the  fields  until  she  came 
to  a  lane  and  then  to  a  road,  followed  that  till  she  found 
crossroads  and  a  signpost,  and  then  discovered  that 
she  was  going  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  of 
Abington.  So  she  turned  back  about  a  mile,  and  going 
a  little  farther  found  herself  in  familiar  country  and 
reached  home  in  time  for  a  bath  before  luncheon. 

That  was  Beatrix's  day  with  the  hounds,  but  she  had 
plenty  to  think  about  as  she  walked  and  trotted  along 
the  quiet  lanes. 

She  felt  rather  soft  with  regard  to  Bertie  and  Mollie. 
He  had  shown  himself  in  a  light  that  touched  her,  and 
the  conviction,  which  at  one  period  of  their  conversa- 
tion she  had  quite  sincerely  expressed  to  him,  that  he 
was  not  nearly  good  enough  for  her  chosen  friend,  she 
found  herself  to  have  relinquished.     As  the  young  man 


326  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

with  some  reputation  for  love-making,  who  had  seemed 
to  be  uncertain  whether  he  would  or  he  wouldn't,  he  had 
certainly  not  been  good  enough,  nor  on  that  side  of 
him  would  he  ever  be  good  enough.  But  there  had  been 
something  revealed  that  went  a  good  deal  deeper  than 
that.  Beatrix  thought  that  his  love  for  Mollie  was 
after  all  of  the  right  sort,  and  was  honouring  to  her 
friend.  She  also  thought  that  she  herself  might  per- 
haps do  something  to  further  it. 

As  for  Mollie,  she  had  found  herself  somewhat  im- 
pressed by  the  young  man's  statement  that  she  had 
given  him  little  encouragement.  She  had  seen  for  her- 
self, watching  the  pair  of  them  when  they  had  been 
together,  how  she  had  been  invited  to  it.  Here  again 
her  own  experience  that  had  been  so  sweet  to  her  came 
in.  The  man  shows  himself  attracted.  He  makes  little 
appeals  and  advances.  An  aura  begins  to  form  round 
him ;  he  is  not  as  other  men.  But  the  girl  shrinks  in- 
stinctively from  those  advances  at  first,  holding  her 
maiden  stronghold.  Then,  as  instinctively,  she  begins 
to  invite  them,  and  greatly  daring  makes  some  flutter- 
ing return,  to  be  followed  perhaps  by  a  more  deter- 
mined closing  up.  The  round  repeats  itself,  and  she  is 
led  always  further  along  the  path  that  she  half  fears 
to  tread,  until  at  last  she  is  taken  by  storm,  and  then 
treads  it  with  no  fear  at  all,  but  with  complete  capitu- 
lation and  high  joy. 

So  it  had  been  with  her,  and  she  thought  that  it 
should  have  been  so  with  Mollie,  until  the  tiresome 
figure  of  the  Vicar,  spoiling  the  delicate  poise  with  his 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  327 

crude  accusations,  presented  itself  to  her.  It  was  that 
that  had  made  Mollie  so  careful  that  she  had  shut  her- 
self off  in  irresponsiveness,  wary  and  intended,  instead 
of  following  the  fresh  pure  impulses  of  her  girlhood. 
She  was  sure  of  it,  and  half  wished  she  had  said  as 
much  to  Bertie,  but  on  consideration  was  glad  that  she 
hadn't.  He  would  have  been  very  angry,  and  awkward- 
ness might  have  come  of  it,  for  those  who  were  forced 
to  live  in  proximity  to  this  official  upholder  of  right- 
eousness. He  would  be  sufficiently  confounded  when 
what  he  had  shown  himself  so  eager  to  spoil  in  the 
making  should  result  in  happiness  and  accord.  If 
Beatrix,  in  her  loyalty  towards  youth  as  against  in- 
terfering middle-age,  also  looked  forward  with  pleasure 
to  exhibitions  of  annoyance  at  the  defeat  that  was  com- 
ing to  him,  she  may  perhaps  be  forgiven. 

It  may  be  supposed,  however,  that  during  that  long 
slow  ride  home  her  thoughts  were  more  taken  up  with 
her  own  affair  than  with  that  of  her  friends,  which  in- 
deed seemed  in  train  to  be  happily  settled  in  a  way  that 
hers  was  not. 

For  the  first  time  in  all  these  months,  she  examined 
it  from  a  standpoint  a  little  outside  herself.  She  did 
not  know  that  she  was  enabled  to  do  this  by  the  fact 
that  her  devotion  to  Lassigny's  memory  had  begun  to 
loosen  its  hold  on  her.  Her  time  of  love-making  had 
been  so  short,  and  her  knowledge  of  her  lover  so  slight, 
that  it  was  now  the  memory  to  which  she  clung,  and 
was  obliged  to  cling  if  her  love  was  not  to  die  down 
altogether.     None  of  this,  however,  would  she  have  ad- 


328  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

mitted.  She  had  given  her  love,  and  in  her  own  view 
of  it  she  had  given  it  for  life. 

What  she  found  herself  able  to  examine,  in  the  light 
of  Bertie  Pemberton's  revelation  of  himself,  was  the 
figure  of  her  own  lover,  not  altogether  deprived  of  the 
halo  with  which  she  had  crowned  it,  but  for  the  first 
time  somewhat  as  others  might  see  it,  and  especially  her 
father. 

He  distrusted  Lassigny.  Why?  She  had  never  ad- 
mitted the  question  before,  and  only  did  so  now  on  the 
first  breath  of  discomfort  that  blew  chill  on  her  own 
heart.  Those  two  sorts  of  love  of  which  Mollie's  lover 
had  dimly  seen  his  own  to  be  compounded — had  they 
both  been  offered  to  her.''  There  had  been  no  such 
shrinking  on  Lassigny's  part  as  the  more  ordinary 
young  man  had  confessed  to.  He  had  wooed  her  boldly, 
irresistibly,  with  the  sure  confidence  of  a  man  who 
knows  his  power,  and  what  he  may  expect  to  get  for 
himself  from  it.  He  had  desired  her,  and  she  had 
fallen  a  willing  captive  to  him.  She  knew  that  he  had 
found  her  very  sweet,  and  he  had  laid  at  her  feet  so 
much  that  she  had  never  questioned  his  having  laid  all. 
All  would  have  included  his  own  man's  past,  the  full 
tide  of  the  years  and  experiences  of  youth,  spent  lav- 
ishly while  she  had  been  a  little  child,  and  beginning 
now  to  poise  its  wings  for  departure.  It  was  the  care- 
less waste  of  youth  and  of  love  that  Mollie's  lover  had 
felt  to  have  been  disloyalty  to  the  finer  love  that  had 
come  to  him,  and  turned  him  from  his  loud  self-con- 
fidence to  diffidence  and  doubt.     There  had  been  no 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  329 

self-abasement  of  that  sort  in  Beatrix's  lover.  He  had 
claimed  her  triumphantly,  as  he  had  claimed  and  en- 
joyed other  loves.  She  was  one  of  a  series,  different 
from  the  others  insomuch  as  the  time  had  come  for 
him  to  settle  down,  as  the  phrase  went,  and  it  was  more 
agreeable  to  make  a  start  at  that  postponed  process 
with  love  as  part  of  the  propulsion  than  without  it. 
It  was  not  even  certain  that  she  would  be  the  last  of 
the  series.  In  her  father's  view  it  was  almost  certain 
that  she  wouldn't. 

She  did  not  see  all  of  this,  by  any  means,  as  she  rode 
reflectively  homewards.  Her  knowledge  and  experience 
included  perhaps  a  very  small  part  of  it  as  conscious 
reflection,  and  there  was  no  ordered  sequence  of  thought 
or  discovery  in  the  workings  of  her  girl's  mind.  Some 
progression,  however,  there  was,  in  little  spurts  of  feel- 
ing and  enlightenment.  She  was  more  doubtful  of  her 
lover,  more  doubtful  of  the  strength  of  her  own  attach- 
ment to  him,  more  inclined  to  return  to  her  loving 
allegiance  to  her  father,  whatever  the  future  should 
hold  for  her. 

This  last  impulse  of  affection  Svas  the  most  signifi- 
cant outcome  of  all  her  aroused  sensibilities.  She  would 
not  at  any  time  have  acknowledged  that  he  had  been 
right  and  she  had  been  wrong.  But  she  felt  the  chan- 
nel of  her  love  for  him  cleared  of  obstruction.  It  flowed 
towards  him.  It  would  be  good  to  give  it  expression, 
and  gain  in  return  the  old  happy  signs  of  his  tender- 
ness and  devotion  towards  her.  She  wanted  to  see  him 
at  once,  and  behave  to  him  as  his  spoilt  loving  child. 


330  ABIxXGTON  ABBEY 

and  rather  hoped  that  the  fortunes  of  the  chase  would 
bring  him  home  before  the  rest,  so  that  she  might  have 
a  cosy  companionable  little  time  with  him  alone. 

In  the  afternoon,  as  the  short  winter  day  began  to 
draw  in,  having  read  and  lightly  slept,  her  young 
blood  roused  her  to  activity  again.  She  would  go  and 
see  Mollie,  and  persuade  her  to  come  back  to  tea  with 
her,  so  that  they  could  talk  confidentially  together. 
Or  if  she  had  to  stay  to  tea  at  Stone  Cottage,  because 
of  Mrs.  Walter,  perhaps  Mollie  would  come  back  with 
her  afterwards. 

She  put  on  her  coat  and  hat,  and  went  out  as  the 
dusk  was  falling  over  the  quiet  spaces  of  the  park. 
As  she  neared  the  gates  she  heard  the  trot  of  a  horse 
on  the  road  outside,  and  wondered  if  it  was  her  father 
who  was  coming  home.  She  had  forgotten  her  wish 
that  he  would  do  so,  as  it  had  seemed  so  little  likely  of 
fulfilment,  but  made  up  her  mind  to  go  back  with  him 
if  it  should  happily  be  he. 

It  was  a  man,  who  passed  the  gates  at  a  sharp  trot, 
not  turning  his  head  to  look  inside  them.  The  light 
was  not  too  far  gone  for  her  to  recognise,  with  a  start 
of  surprise,  the  horsemanlike  figure  of  Bertie  Pember- 
ton,  whom  she  had  imagined  many  miles  away.  The 
hunt  had  set  directly  awa}-  from  Abington,  and  was  not 
likely  to  have  worked  back  so  far  in  this  direction. 
Nor  could  Abington  conceivably  be  on  Bertie's  home- 
ward road,  even  supposing  him  so  far  to  have  de- 
parted from  his  usual  habits  as  to  have  taken  it  before 
the  end  of  the  day.     What  was  he  doing  here.'' 


ANOTHER  AFFAIR  331 

She  thought  she  knew,  and  walked  on  down  the  road 
to  the  village  at  a  slightly  faster  pace,  with  a  keen 
sense  of  pleasure  and  excitement  at  her  breast.  She 
saw  him  come  out  of  the  stable  of  the  inn,  on  foot,  and 
walk  up  the  village  street  at  the  head  of  which  stood 
Stone  Cottage,  at  a  pace  faster  than  her  own. 

Then  she  turned  and  went  back,  smiling  to  herself, 
but  a  little  melancholy  too.  She  was  not  so  happy  as 
MoUie  was  likely  to  be  in  a  very  short  time. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE 

The  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Mercer  were  drinking  tea  with 
Mrs.  Walter  and  Mollio.  There  had  been  a  revival 
of  late  of  the  old  intercourse  between  the  Vicarage  and 
Stone  Cottage.  Mollie  had  been  very  careful.  After 
that  conversation  with  her  mother  recorded  a  few 
chapters  back,  she  had  resolutely  made  up  her  mind 
that  no  call  from  outside  should  lure  her  away  from 
her  home  whenever  her  mother  would  be  likely  to  want 
her.  With  her  generous  young  mind  afire  with  tender- 
ness and  gratitude  for  all  the  love  that  had  been  given 
to  her,  for  the  years  of  hard  and  anxious  toil  that  had 
gone  to  the  making  of  this  little  home,  in  which  at  last 
she  could  make  some  return  for  her  mother's  devotion, 
she  had  set  herself  to  put  her  above  everything,  and 
had  never  flinched  from  sacrificing  her  youthful  desires 
to  that  end,  while  taking  the  utmost  pains  to  hide  the 
fact  that  there  was  any  sacrifice  at  all.  She  had  had  her 
reward  in  the  knowledge  that  her  mother  was  happier 
than  she  had  ever  been  since  her  widowhood,  with  an 
increased  confidence  in  the  security  she  had  worked 
so  hard  to  gain,  and  even  some  improvement  in  health. 
The  poor  woman,  crushed  more  by  the  hard  weight  of 
difficult  years  than  by  any  definite  ailment,  had  seen 

832 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  333 

her  hold  on  her  child  loosening,  and  the  friendship  that 
had  been  so  much  to  her  becoming  a  source  of  strife  and 
worry  instead  of  refreshment.  It  had  been  easier  to 
suffer  under  the  thought  of  what  should  be  coming  to 
her  than  to  make  headway  against  it.  She  had  no  vital 
force  left  for  further  struggle,  and  to  rise  and  take  up 
the  little  duties  of  her  day  had  often  been  too  much 
for  her  while  she  had  been  under  the  weight  of  her  fear. 
That  fear  was  now  removed,  and  a  sense  of  safety  and 
contentment  had  taken  its  place.  She  had  been  more 
active  and  capable  during  this  early  winter  than  at 
any  such  period  since  she  had  gained  her  freedom. 

Part  of  Mollie's  deeply  considered  duty  had  been 
to  recreate  the  intimacy  with  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Mer- 
cer, and  by  this  time  there  had  come  to  be  no  doubt 
that  they  occupied  first  place  again  in  her  attentions. 
Even  Beatrix  had  had  to  give  way  to  them,  but  had 
found  Mollie  so  keenly  delighted  in  her  society  when 
she  did  enjoy  it,  that,  divining  something  of  what  was 
behind  it  all,  she  had  made  no  difficulties,  except  to  chafF 
her  occasionally  about  her  renewed  devotion  to  Lord 
Salisbury. 

Mollie  never  let  fall  a  hint  of  the  aversion  she  had 
conceived  for  the  man,  which  seemed  to  have  come  to  her 
suddenly,  and  for  no  reason  that  she  wanted  to  examine. 
Some  change  in  her  attitude  towards  him  he  must  have 
felt,  for  he  showed  slight  resentments  and  caprices  in 
his  towards  her;  but  Mrs.  Mercer  exulted  openly  in 
the  return  of  her  allegiance,  and  if  he  was  not  satisfied 
that  it  had  extended  to  himself  he  had  no  grounds  on 


334  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

which  to  express  complaint.  There  was  no  doubt,  at 
least,  that  Mollie  was  more  at  the  disposal  of  himself 
and  his  wife  than  she  had  been  at  any  time  since  the 
Graftons  had  come  to  the  Abbey,  and  he  put  it  down  as 
the  result  of  his  wife's  visit  to  Mrs.  Walter,  which  he 
had  instigated  if  not  actually  directed.  So  he  accepted 
the  renewal  of  intimacy  with  not  too  bad  a  face,  and 
neither  Mrs.  Walter  nor  Mrs.  Mercer  conceived  it  to 
be  less  complete  between  all  of  them  than  it  had  been 
before. 

The  Vicar  had  a  grievance  on  this  winter  after- 
noon, which  he  was  exploiting  over  the  tea-table. 

*'  The  least  that  could  be  expected,"  he  was  saying, 
"  when  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  comes  among  us  Is 
that  the  clergy  of  the  neighbourhood  should  be  asked 
to  meet  him  In  a  friendly  way.  Mrs.  Carruthers  gives 
a  great  deal  of  hospitality  where  It  suits  her,  and  I 
hear  that  the  whole  Grafton  family  has  been  invited 
to  dinner  at  Surley  Park  to-morrow,  as  of  course  was 
to  be  expected.  They  have  made  a  dead  set  at  the  lady 
and  she  at  them,  and  I  suppose  none  of  her  parties 
would  be  complete  without  a  Grafton  to  grace  it, 
though  It's  difficult  to  see  what  pleasure  she  can  expect 
the  Bishop  to  take  In  meeting  a  young  girl  like  Bar- 
bara, or  a  mere  child  like  the  boy." 

"  Oh,  but  elderly  men  do  like  to  have  young  things 
about  them,  Albert,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer ;  "  and  as  this 
Is  a  purely  private  family  party  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers thought  that  his  lordship  would  prefer  to  meet 
lay  people  rather  than  the  clergy." 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  335 

The  Vicar's  mouth  shut  down,  as  it  always  did  in 
company  when  his  wife  made  a  speech  of  that  sort. 
She  had  been  a  good  wife  to  him — that  he  would  have 
been  the  first  to  admit — but  he  never  could  get  her  to 
curb  her  tongue,  which,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  say, 
was  apt  to  run  away  with  her;  although  he  had  tried 
hard,  and  even  prayed  about  it,  as  he  had  once  told 
her. 

"  Personally,"  he  said  stiffly,  "  I  am  unable  to  draw 
this  distinction  between  lay  people  and  clergy,  except 
where  the  affairs  of  the  church  are  concerned,  and  I 
must  say  it  strikes  me  as  odd  that  the  wife  of  a  priest 
should  wish  to  do  so.  In  ordinary  social  intercourse  I 
should  have  said  that  a  well-educated  clergyman,  who 
happened  also  to  be  a  man  of  the  world,  was  about  the 
best  company  that  could  be  found  anywhere.  His 
thoughts  are  apt  to  be  on  a  higher  plane  than  those 
of  other  men,  but  that  need  not  prevent  him  shining 
in  the  lighter  phases  of  conversation.  I  have  heard 
better,  and  funnier,  stories  told  by  clergymen  over  the 
dinner-table  than  by  any  other  class  of  human  beings, 
though  never,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  a  gross  one." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer  soothingly.  "  I 
like  funny  stories  with  a  clerical  flavour  the  best  of  all 
myself.  Do  tell  Mrs.  Walter  that  one  about  the  Bishop 
who  asked  the  man  who  came  to  see  him  to  take  two 
chairs." 

"  As  you  have  already  anticipated  the  point  of  the 
story,"  said  the  Vicar,  not  mollified,  "  I  think  I  should 
prefer  to  save  it  for  another  occasion.     I  was  over  at 


336  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Surley  Rectory  yesterday  calling  on  poor  old  Mr. 
Cooper.  You  have  never  met  him,  I  think,  Mrs. 
Walter." 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  He  has  been  more  or  less  laid 
up  ever  since  we  came  here." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  will  never  get  about  again.  He 
seems  to  me  to  be  on  his  last  legs,  if  I  may  so  express 
myself." 

No  objection  being  made  to  his  doing  so,  he  went  on. 
"  He  has  done  good  work  in  his  time.  He  is  past  it 
now,  poor  old  man,  but  in  years  gone  by  he  was  an 
example  to  all — full  of  energy  and  good  works.  I  have 
been  told  that  before  he  came  to  Surley,  and  held  a 
small  living  somewhere  in  the  Midlands,  he  did  not  rest 
until  he  had  raised  the  endowment  by  a  hundred  pounds 
a  year.  That  means  hard  unremitting  work,  in  these 
days  when  the  laity  is  apt  to  keep  its  purse  closed 
against  the  claims  of  the  church.  I  always  like  to 
give  credit  where  credit  is  due,  and  I  must  say  for  old 
Mr.  Cooper  that  he  has  deserved  well  of  his  generation." 

"  It  is  nice  to  think  of  his  ending  his  days  in  peace 
in  that  beautiful  place,"  said  Mrs.  Walter.  "  When 
Mollie  and  I  went  to  call  there  in  the  summer  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  a  prettier  house  and  garden  of  its  size. 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  the  luck  to  get  the  living 
when  old  Mr.  Cooper  does  go,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer  art- 
lessly. "  I  don't  want  the  old  gentleman  to  die  yet 
awhile,  naturally,  but  he  can't  be  expected  to  hold  out 
very  much  longer ;  he  is  eighty-four  and  getting  weaker 
every  day.     Somehody  must  be  appointed  after  him. 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  337 

and  I  think  myself  it  ought  to  be  an  incumbent  of  the 
diocese  who  has  borne  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day 
in  a  poorly  endowed  living." 

She  was  only  repeating  her  husband's  oft-spoken 
words,  being  ready  to  take  liis  view  in  all  matters,  and 
using  his  methods  of  expression  as  being  more  suitable 
than  her  own.  But  he  was  not  pleased  with  the  implied 
compliment.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  in  that  way, 
Gertrude,"  he  said,  in  an  annoyed  voice.  "  Before 
such  friends  as  Mrs.  Walter  and  Mollie  it  may  do  no 
harm,  but  if  such  a  thing  were  said  outside  it  would 
look  as  if  I  had  given  rise  to  the  wish  myself,  which  is 
the  last  thing  I  should  like  to  be  said.  If  it  so  befalls 
me  I  shall  be  content  to  go  on  working  here  where  Provi- 
dence has  placed  me  till  the  end  of  the  chapter,  with 
no  other  reward  but  the  approval  of  my  own  con- 
science, and  perhaps  the  knowledge  that  some  few  peo- 
ple are  the  better  and  worthier  for  the  work  I  have 
spent  a  great  part  of  my  life  in  doing  amongst  them. 
At  the  same  time  I  should  not  refuse  to  take  such  a 
reward  as  Surley  would  be  if  it  were  offered  to  me 
freel}',  and  it  were  understood  that  it  was  a  reward  for 
work  honestly  done  through  a  considerable  period  of 
years.  I  would  not  take  it  under  any  other  conditions, 
and  as  for  doing  anything  to  solicit  it,  it  would  be  to 
contradict  everything  that  I  have  always  stood  for." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Mercer.  "  But  it 
wouldn't  have  done  any  harm  just  to  have  met  the 
Bishop  in  a  friendly  way  at  Surley  itself.  It  might 
have  sort  of  connected  you  with  the  place  in  his  mind. 


338  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

I  wish  we  had  been  able  to  keep  friends  with  Mrs.  Car- 
ruthers,  or  that  Rhoda  and  Ethel  had  accepted  your 
offer  to  preach  to-morrow  afternoon." 

Really,  although  a  devoted  helpmate,  both  in  purse 
and  person,  this  woman  was  a  trial.  His  face  dark- 
ened so  at  her  speech  that  Mrs.  Walter  struck  in  hur- 
riedly so  as  to  draw  the  lightning  from  the  tactless 
speaker.  "  The  Miss  Coopers  were  hoping  the  last 
time  they  were  over  here  that  their  brother  might  be 
appointed  to  succeed  their  father,"  was  her  not  very 
sedative  effort. 

But  the  lightning  was  drawn.  The  lowered  brows 
were  bent  upon  her.  "  I  think  it  is  quite  extraor- 
dinary," said  the  Vicar,  "  that  those  girls  should  give 
themselves  away  as  they  do.  Really,  in  these  matters 
there  are  decencies  to  be  observed.  A  generation  or 
two  ago,  perhaps,  it  was  not  considered  wrong  to  look 
upon  an  incumbency  as  merely  providing  an  income  and 
a  house,  just  as  any  secular  post  might.  You  get  it 
in  the  works  of  Anthony  Trollope,  a  tedious  long- 
winded  writer,  but  valuable  as  giving  a  picture  of  his 
time.  But  with  the  growth  of  true  religion  and  a  more 
self-devoted  spirit  on  the  part  of  the  clergy  it  is  al- 
most approaching  the  sin  of  simony  to  talk  about  an 
incumbency  in  the  way  those  girls  do  so  freely." 

"  They  only  said  that  their  brother  was  very  much 
liked  by  everybody  in  the  parish,"  said  Mollie,  who  had 
seen  her  mother  wince  at  the  attack.  "  They  said  if 
the  Bishop  knew  how  suitable  he  really  was,  he  might 
look  over  his  youth,  and  appoint  him." 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  339 

The  brows  were  turned  upon  MolHe,  who  was  given 
to  understand  that  such  matters  as  these  were  beyond 
her  understanding,  and  that  no  Bishop  who  valued  his 
reputation  could  afford  to  make  such  an  appointment. 

Mollie  sat  silent  under  the  lecture,  thinking  of  other 
things.  It  was  enough  for  her  that  it  was  not  ad- 
dressed directly  to  her  mother.  Something  in  her  atti- 
tude, that  may  have  betrayed  the  complete  indifference 
towards  his  views  which  she  had  thought  her  submis- 
sively downcast  eyes  were  hiding,  must  have  stung  him, 
for  his  tone  hardened  against  her,  and  when  he  had 
finished  with  the  question  of  Surley  Rectory,  his  next 
speech  seemed  directed  at  her,  with  an  intention  none 
of  the  kindest. 

"  I'm  told  that  Mrs.  Carruthers  was  seen  driving 
the  Bishop  over  to  the  meet  at  Grays  this  morning," 
he  said.  "  Of  course  there  would  be  one  or  two  people 
there  whom  he  might  be  glad  to  meet,  but  he  will  have 
a  queer  idea  of  our  part  of  the  world  if  he  takes  it 
from  people  like  those  noisy  Pembertons." 

Mollie  could  not  prevent  a  deep  blush  spreading  over 
her  face  at  this  sudden  unexpected  introduction  of  the 
name.  She  knew  that  he  must  notice  it,  and  blushed 
all  the  deeper.  How  she  hated  him  at  that  moment, 
and  how  she  blessed  his  little  wife  for  jumping  in  with 
her  "  Oh,  Albert !  Not  vulgar,  only  noisy.  And  it's 
all  good  nature  and  high  spirits.  You  said  so  yourself 
after  we  had  dined  there  in  the  summer." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  not  discuss  our  neighbours," 
said  Mrs,  Walter,  almost  quivering  at  her  own  daring. 


340  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  The  Pembertons  have  shown  themselves  very  kind 
and  friendly  towards  us,  and  personally  I  like  them 
all." 

"  Sa  do  I,"  said  Mollie,  rallying  to  her  mother's 
side.  "  Especially  the  girls.  I  think  they're  as  kind 
as  any  girls  I've  ever  met." 

The  temper  of  the  official  upholder  of  righteousness 
was  of  the  kind  described  by  children's  nurses  as  nasty. 
Otherwise  he  would  hardly  have  fixed  a  baleful  eye  upon 
Mollie,  and  said :  "  Are  you  sure  it's  the  girls  you  like 
best.?" 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Bertie  Pemberton  was 
announced,  his  heralding  ring  at  the  bell  having  passed 
unnoticed. 

He  told  Mollie  afterwards  that  he  had  noticed  noth- 
ing odd,  having  been  much  worked  up  in  spirit  him- 
self, and  being  also  taken  aback  at  finding  the  room 
full  of  outsiders,  as  he  expressed  it,  instead  of  only 
Mollie  and  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Walter,  under  the  combined  stress  of  the 
Vicar's  speech  and  Bertie's  appearance,  was  near  col- 
lapse. When  she  had  shaken  hands  with  him  she  leant 
back  in  her  chair  with  a  face  so  white  that  Mollie  cried 
out  in  alarm,  and  going  to  her  was  saved  from  the 
almost  unbearable  confusion  that  would  otherwise  have 
been  hers.  Mrs.  Walter  rallied  herself,  smiled  and 
said  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  her  but  a  sud- 
den faintness  which  had  passed  off.  She  wanted  to  con- 
trol the  situation,  and  made  the  strongest  possible 
mental  call  upon  herself  to  do  so.     But  her  strength 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  341 

was  not  equal  to  the  task,  and,  although  she  pro- 
tested, she  had  to  allow  herself  to  be  led  from  the 
room  by  Mollie  and  Mrs.  Mercer.  She  was  able,  how- 
ever, to  shake  hands  with  Bertie  and  tell  him  that 
Mollie  should  be  down  in  a  minute  to  give  him  his 
tea. 

He  and  the  Vicar  were  left  alone.  The  young  man 
was  greatly  concerned  at  Mrs.  Walter's  sudden  attack, 
which,  however,  he  did  not  connect  with  his  own  arrival, 
and  gave  vent  to  many  expressions  of  concern, 
of  the  nature  of  "  Oh,  I  say !  "  "  It's  too  bad,  you 
know."  "  Poor  lady !  She  did  look  bad,  and  no  mis- 
take!" 

The  Vicar,  actually  responsible  for  Mrs.  Walter's 
collapse,  and  knowing  it,  yet  felt  his  anger  rising  hot 
and  uncontrollable  against  the  intruder.  His  simple 
expressions  of  concern  irritated  him  beyond  bearing. 
He  had  just  enough  hold  over  himself  not  to  break 
out,  but  said,  in  his  most  Oxford  of  voices :  "  Don't  you 
think,  sir,  that  as  there's  trouble  in  the  house  you 
would  be  better  out  of  it.-* " 

Bertie  paused  in  his  perambulation  of  the  little  room, 
and  stared  at  him.  Hostility  was  plainly  to  be  seen  in 
the  way  in  which  he  met  the  look,  and  he  said  further: 
"In  any  case  Mrs.  Walter  won't  be  able  to  come  down, 
and  my  wife  and  I  will  have  to  be  going  in  a  few  min- 
utes. You  can  hardly  expect  Miss  Walter  to  come  and 
sit  and  talk  alone  with  you  while  her  mother  is  ill  up- 
stairs." 

The  Vicar's  indefensible  attack  upon  Mollie  for  her 


342  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

indelicacy  in  making  friends  with  a  young  man  not 
acceptable  to  himself  had  been  hidden  from  Bertie, 
but  some  hint  of  his  attitude  had  presented  itself  to 
him,  perhaps  by  way  of  his  sisters.  He  had  given  it 
no  attention,  esteeming  it  of  no  importance  what  a 
man  so  outside  his  own  beat  should  be  thinking  of 
him.  But  here  he  was  faced  unmistakably  with 
strong  and  unfriendly  opposition,  and  it  had  to  be 
met. 

Bertie  had  been  at  Oxford  himself,  but  had  not  ac- 
quired the  '  manner,'  whether  as  a  weapon  of  claimed 
superiority  or  of  offence.  He  said,  quite  directly, 
"  What  has  it  got  to  do  with  you  whether  I  go  or  stay  ? 
You  heard  what  Mrs.  Walter  said.?  " 

"  It  has  this  to  do  with  me,  sir,"  said  the  Vicar, 
beginning  to  lose  hold  over  himself,  and  exhibiting 
through  his  habitually  clipped  speech  traces  of  a  long 
since  sacrificed  Cockney  accent,  "  that  I  am  the  man 
to  whom  these  ladies  look  for  help  and  advice  in  their 
unprotected  lives.  I'm  not  going  to  see  them  at  the 
mercy  of  any  young  gentleman  who  pushes  himself  in, 
it's  plain  enough  to  see  why,  and  gets  them  talked 
about." 

"  Gets  who  talked  about  and  by  who.''  "  asked  Bertie, 
innocent  of  grammatical  niceties,  but  temperamentally 
quick  to  seize  a  salient  point. 

His  firm  attitude  and  direct  gaze,  slightly  con- 
temptuous, and  showing  him  completely  master  of 
himself  in  face  of  a  temper  roused  to  boiling-point, 
added  fuel  to  keep  that  temper  boiling,  though  it  was 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  343 

accompanied  now  with  trembling  of  voice  and  hands, 
as  weakness  showed  itself  to  be  at  its  source,  and  no 
justified  strength  of  passion. 

"  Your  attentions  to  Miss  Walter  have  been  re- 
marked upon  by  everybody,  sir,"  continued  the  furious 
man.  "  They  are  dishonouring  to  her,  and  are  not 
wanted,  sir.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  keep  away  from 
the  young  lady,  and  not  get  her  talked  about.  It  does 
her  no  good  to  have  her  name  connected  with  yours. 
And  I  won't  have  her  persecuted.  1  won't  have  it,  I 
say.     Do  you  hear  that?  " 

"Oh,  I  hear  it  all  right,"  said  Bertie.  "They'll 
hear  it  upstairs  too  if  you  can't  put  the  curb  on  your- 
self a  bit.  What  I  ask  you  is  what  you've  got  to  do 
with  it.  You  heard  what  Mrs.  Walter  said.  That's 
enough  for  me,  and  it'll  have  to  be  enough  for  you. 
All  the  rest  is  pure  impudence,  and  I'm  going  to  take 
no  notice  of  it." 

He  sat  do\vn  in  a  low  chair,  with  his  legs  stretched 
out  in  front  of  him.  This  attitude  was  owing  to  the 
tightness  of  his  buckskins  at  the  knee,  but  it  appeared 
to  the  Vicar  as  a  deliberate  and  insulting  expression  of 
contempt. 

"How  dare  you  behave  like  that  to  me,  sir?"  he 
cried.  "  Are  you  aware  that  I  am  a  minister  of  re- 
ligion? " 

"  You  don't  behave  much  like  one,"  returned  Bertie. 
"  I  think  you've  gone  off  your  head.  Anyhow,  I'm  not 
going  to  carry  on  a  brawl  with  you  in  somebody  else's 
house.    I  shall  be  quite  ready  to  come  and  have  it  out 


344  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

with  you  whenever  you  like  when  I  leave  here — in  your 
vestry,  if  you  like." 

"  Your  manners  and  speech  are  detestable,  sir," 
said  the  Vicar.  "  You're  not  fit  to  come  into  the  house 
of  ladies  like  these,  and  if  you  don't  leave  it  at  once — 
I  shall— I  shall " 

"You'll  what.?"  asked  Bertie.  "Put  me  out.?  I 
don't  think  you  could.  What  I  should  suggest  is  that 
you  clear  out  yourself.  You're  not  in  a  fit  state  to  be 
in  a  lady's  drawing-room." 

His  own  anger  was  rising  every  moment,  but  in 
spite  of  some  deficiencies  in  brain  power  he  had  fairly 
sound  control  over  the  brains  he  did  possess,  and  they 
told  him  that,  with  two  angry  men  confronted,  the  one 
who  shows  his  anger  least  has  an  unspeakable  advan- 
tage over  the  other. 

He  was  not  proof,  however,  against  the  next  speech 
hurled  at  him. 

"  You  are  compromising  Miss  Walter  by  coming 
here.  If  you  don't  leave  off  persecuting  that  young 
lady  with  your  odious  and  unwelcome  attentions,  I 
shall  tell  her  so  plainly,  and  leave  it  to  her  to  choose 
between  you  and  me." 

Bertie  sprang  up.  "  That's  too  much,"  he  said,  his 
hands  clenched  and  his  eyes  blazing.  "  How  dare  you 
talk  about  my  compromising  her?  And  choose  between 
me  and  you!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by 
that.?" 

The  Vicar  would  have  found  it  hard  to  explain  a 
speech  goaded  by  his  furious  annoyance,  and  what  lay 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  345 

behind  it.  But  he  was  spared  the  trouble.  Mollie  came 
into  the  room,  to  see  the  two  men  facing  one  another 
as  if  they  would  be  at  fisticuffs  the  next  moment.  She 
and  Mrs.  Mercer  coming  downstairs  had  heard  the 
raised  voices,  and  Mrs.  Mercer,  frightened,  had  in- 
continently fled.  She  had  heard  such  tones  from  her 
lord  and  master  before,  and  knew  that  she,  unfor- 
tunately, could  do  nothing  to  calm  them.  Mollie  hardly 
noticed  her  flustered  apology  for  flight,  but  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  went  into  the  room  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her. 

Bertie  was  himself  in  a  moment.  This  was  to  be 
his  mate ;  he  knew  it  for  certain  at  that  instant,  by  the 
way  she  held  her  head  and  looked  directly  at  him  as 
she  came  into  the  room.  The  sudden  joy  of  her  pres- 
ence made  the  red-faced  spluttering  man  in  front  of 
him  of  no  account,  and  anger  against  him  not  worth 
holding.  Only  she  must  be  guarded  against  annoyance, 
of  all  sorts  and  for  ever. 

He  took  a  step  towards  her  and  asked  after  her 
mother.  If  the  Vicar  had  been  master  enough  of  him- 
self to  be  able  to  take  the  same  natural  line,  the  situa- 
tion could  have  been  retrieved  and  he  have  got  out 
of  it  with  some  remains  of  dignity.  It  was  his  only 
chance,  and  he  failed  to  take  it. 

"  Mollie,"  he  said,  in  the  dictatorial  voice  that  he 
habitually  used  towards  those  whom  he  conceived  to 
owe  him  deference,  and  had  used  not  infrequently  to 
her  in  the  days  when  he  had  represented  protective 
authority  to  her,  "  I  have  told  this  young  man  that  it 


346  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

isn't  fitting  that  he  should  be  alone  here  with  you,  while 
your  mother  is  ill.  She  will  want  you.  Besides  that, 
he  has  acted  with  gross  rudeness  towards  me.  Will 
you  please  tell  him  to  go.^  and  I  will  speak  to  you 
afterwards." 

Bertie  gave  her  no  time  to  reply.  He  laughed  at  the 
absurd  threat  with  which  the  speech  had  ended,  and 
said :  "  Mr.  Mercer  seems  to  think  he  has  some  sort 
of  authority  over  you,  Mollie.  It's  what  I  came  here 
to  ask  you  for  myself.  If  you'll  give  it  me,  my  dear, 
I'll  ask  him  to  go,  and  it  will  be  me  that  will  speak  to 
you  afterwards." 

It  was  one  of  the  queerest  proposals  that  a  girl  had 
ever  had,  but  confidence  had  come  to  him,  and  the 
assurance  that  she  was  his  already.  The  bliss  of  capit- 
ulation might  be  postponed  for  a  time.  The  impor- 
tant thing  for  the  moment  was  to  show  the  Vicar  how 
matters  stood,  and  would  continue  to  stand,  and  to 
get  rid  of  him  once  and  for  all. 

Mollie  answered  to  his  sudden  impulse  as  a  boat 
answers  at  once  to  its  helm.  "  Yes,"  she  said  simply. 
"  I'll  do  what  you  want.  Mr.  Mercer,  I  think  you 
have  been  making  mistakes.  I'll  ask  you  to  leave  us 
now." 

She  had  moved  to  Bertie's  side.  He  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  and  they  stood  there  together  facing 
the  astonished  Vicar.  Something  fixed  and  sure  in 
their  conjunction  penetrated  the  noxious  mists  of  his 
mind,  and  he  saw  that  he  had  made  one  hideous  mis- 
take after  another.     Shame  overtook  him,  and  he  made 


BERTIE  AND  MOLLIE  347 

one  last  eifort  to  catch  at  the  vanishing  skirts  of  his 
dignit}'. 

"Oh,  if  it's  like  that,"  he  said  with  a  gulp,  "I 
should  like  to  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Neither  of  them  made  any 
motion  to  take  it,  but  stood  there  together  looking  at 
him  until  he  had  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Then  at  last  they  were  alone  together. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

SUNDAY 

Grafton  got  up  on  Sunday  morning  and  carried  his 
cup  of  tea  along  the  corridor  towards  Caroline's  room, 
but  met  the  girls'  maid  who  told  him  that  Miss  Beatrix 
wanted  him  to  go  and  see  her. 

He  felt  a  little  glow  of  pleasure  at  the  message.  The 
evening  before  Beatrix  had  been  very  gay  and  loving 
with  him.  They  had  spent  a  family  evening,  talking 
over  the  events  of  the  day,  and  playing  a  rubber  of 
bridge,  which  had  not  been  succeeded  by  another  be- 
cause their  talk  had  so  amused  them.  There  had  been 
no  shadow  of  the  trouble  that  had  of  late  overcast 
their  happy  family  intimacy.  Lassigny  was  as  far 
removed  from  them  in  spirit  as  he  was  in  body.  Bea- 
trix had  been  her  old-time  self,  and  in  high  untroubled 
spirits,  which  kept  them  all  going,  as  she  most  of  all 
of  them  could  do  if  she  were  in  one  of  her  merry  ex- 
travagant moods.  She  had  said  "  Good-night,  my 
darling  old  Daddy,"  with  her  arm  thrown  round  his 
neck,  when  they  had  parted  at  a  comparatively  early 
hour,  owing  to  the  fatigues  of  the  day.  She  had  not 
bid  him  good-night  like  that  for  months  past,  though 
there  had  been  times  when  her  attitude  almost  of  hos- 
tility towards  him  had  relaxed.  But  for  the  closing 
down    again    that   had    followed   those    relaxations    he 

348 


SUNDAY  349 

might  have  comforted  liimself  with  the  reflection  that 
the  trouble  between  them  was  over.  But  he  had  be- 
come wary.  Her  exhibition  of  affection  had  sent  him 
to  bed  happy,  but  on  rising  in  the  morning  he  had  set 
out  for  Caroline's  room  and  not  for  hers.  He  had 
jibbed  at  the  thought  of  that  photograph  of  Lassigny, 
propped  for  her  opening  eye. 

The  summons,  however,  seemed  to  show  that  the 
respite  had  not  yet  run  its  course,  and  he  went  to  her 
gladly. 

She  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
Her  tea-tray  was  on  the  table  by  her  side,  and  Las- 
signy's  photograph  was  not.  But  perhaps  she  had  put 
it  under  her  pillow.  She  looked  a  very  child,  in  her 
blue  silk  pyjamas,  with  her  pretty  fair  hair  tumbling 
over  her  shoulders. 

"  Such  an  excitement.  Dad,"  she  said,  holding  up  the 
letter.  "  I  have  sent  for  the  others,  but  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  first.     It's  Mollie." 

The  momentary  alarm  he  had  felt  as  to  what  a  letter 
that  brought  excitement  to  Beatrix  could  portend  was 
dispersed. 

"  Mollie  and  Bertie  Pemberton,"  she  said  by  way  of 
further  elucidation  as  he  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  they've  fixed  it  up,  have  they.''  "  he  said  as  he 
took  the  letter  and  sat  on  the  bed  to  read  it.  Caroline 
and  Barbara  came  in  as  he  was  doing  so.  Young 
George,  who  had  also  received  a  summons,  was  too  deep 
in  the  realms  of  sleep  to  obey  it. 

The  letter  ran : 


350  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

"  Darling  B,— 

"  I  am  so  happy.  Bertie  came  here  this  afternoon, 
and  we  are  engaged.  I  should  have  come  to  tell  you  all 
about  it  but  Mother  isn't  well,  and  I  can't  leave  her. 
He  is  coming  here  to-morrow  morning  and  we  should 
both  like  to  come  and  see  you  all  after  church  time. 
So  we  will  if  Mother  is  well  enough  for  me  to  leave  her. 

"  Ever  your  loving 

"  MOLLIE." 

There  was  a  chatter  of  delight  mixed  with  some  sur- 
prise, and  then  Beatrix  told  them,  which  she  had  not 
done  before,  of  Bertie's  preparatory  investigations  in 
the  hunting-field.  "  It  is  really  I  who  have  brought 
it  on,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  very  proud  of  myself. 
She  is  a  darling,  and  he  is  much  better  than  any  one 
would  give  him  credit  for." 

"  I  have  always  given  him  credit  for  being  a  good 
sort,"  said  Barbara.  "  It's  only  that  he  makes  more 
noise  in  being  a  good  sort  than  most  people.  I  wonder 
how  Lord  Salisbury  will  take  it." 

"  Perhaps  they  will  break  it  to  him  after  church," 
said  Caroline. 

"  I  don't  imagine  that  Master  Bertie  is  coming  over 
here  to  go  to  church,"  said  Grafton.  "  He  will  have 
something  better  to  do.  Can't  you  ask  them  all  to 
lunch,  B?" 

Beatrix  said  she  must  go  and  have  a  word  with 
Mollie  directly  after  breakfast.  At  this  point  Young 
George  came  in,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  with  all  the 
signs  on  him  of  acute  fatigue.  He  received  the  news 
calmly   and   said :   "  I  wonder   what   Jimmy   will   say. 


SUNDAY  351 

You  know  he's  coming  over  here  to  lunch,  to  talk  about 
the  show." 

"  The  blessed  infant !  "  said  Beatrix.  "  He  will  give 
them  his  blessing,  like  a  solemn  old  grandfather." 

"  It's  rather  an  important  thing  for  him,  you  know," 
said  Young  George  seriously.  "  He's  rather  interested 
in  the  Pembertons.  I  can't  say  more  than  that  at 
present." 

This  speech  was  received  with  whoops  of  delight,  and 
Young  George  was  embraced  for  having  made  it,  hut 
struggled  free,  and  said :  "  No,  but  I  say  you  know, 
you  must  be  careful  what  you  say  to  Jimmy.  It's 
pretty  serious  with  him,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  some- 
thing didn't  come  of  it  before  long." 

"  They  might  have  the  two  marriages  at  the  same 
time,"  suggested  Barbara.  "  Jimmy  could  carry  Mol- 
lie's  train  as  a  page  in  white  satin,  and  then  step  into 
his  own  place  as  bridegroom." 

Young  George  expostulated  at  this  disrespectful 
treatment  of  his  friend.  "  Jimmy  isn't  a  fool,"  he  said, 
"  and  he  knows  it  couldn't  come  off  yet.  But  I'll  tell 
you  this,  just  to  show  you,  though  you  mustn't  let  it 
go  any  further.  He's  chucked  the  idea  of  going  to 
Oxford.  He  says  directly  he  leaves  Eton  he  must  be- 
gin to  make  money." 

"  Well  that  shows  he's  in  earnest,"  said  Grafton.  "  I 
admire  a  fellow  who  can  make  sacrifices  for  the  girl 
he  loves." 

The  Grafton  family  went  to  church.  On  their  way 
across  they  met  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Mercer.     The  little 


352  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

lady  was  full  of  smiles.  "  I  know  you  must  have  heard 
our  great  news,"  she  said,  "  for  I  saw  Beatrix  coming 
from  Stone  Cottage  half  an  hour  ago.  We  are  so 
pleased  about  it.  It's  a  great  thing  for  dear  Mollie, 
though,  of  course,  we  shall  hate  losing  her." 

The  Vicar,  if  not  all  smiles  like  his  wife,  also  ex- 
pressed his  pleasure  over  the  affair,  rather  as  if  it  had 
been  of  his  own  making.  Beatrix  had  heard  something 
of  what  had  happened  the  evening  before  from  Mollie, 
but  by  no  means  all.  Mollie  had  also  spoken  of  a  note 
of  congratulation  that  had  come  from  the  Vicarage 
that  morning,  so  she  took  it  that  he  had  swallowed  his 
chagrin,  and  that  matters  were  to  be  on  the  same  foot- 
ing between  the  Vicarage  and  Stone  Cottage  as  be- 
fore. 

The  Vicar's  letter,  indeed,  had  been  a  masterpiece 
of  capitulation.  Going  home  the  night  before,  he  had 
seen  that  it  was  necessary  to  cover  up  his  mistakes  by 
whatever  art  he  could  summon,  unless  he  was  prepared 
for  an  open  breach  with  the  Walters,  which  if  it  came 
would  react  on  his  own  position  in  a  way  that  would 
make  it  almost  impossible.  In  view  of  his  behaviour 
towards  Bertie  it  was  not  certain  that  this  could  be 
done,  but  he  had  at  least  to  make  his  effort.  He  had 
first  of  all  set  the  mind  of  his  wife  at  ease  by  giving 
her  a  garbled  account  of  what  had  taken  place  in  the 
drawing-room  of  Stone  Cottage,  from  which  she  had 
drawn  the  conclusion  that  he  had  felt  it  his  duty  to 
ask  young  Pemberton  what  his  intentions  were  towards 
the  girl  whom  he  looked  upon  as  being  in  some  sense 


SUNDAY  363 

under  his  protection,  and  that  his  intervention  had 
brought  about  an  immediate  proposal  of  marriage. 
This  had,  of  course,  set  his  own  mind  at  rest,  and  had 
indeed  brought  him  considerable  pleasure.  She  was  not, 
however,  to  say  a  word  outside  about  his  part  in  the 
affair. 

It  had  been  enough  for  her  to  have  those  fears  under 
which  she  had  made  her  escape  from  Stone  Cottage  set 
at  rest,  and  she  had  not  examined  too  closely  into  the 
story,  though  she  had  asked  a  few  questions  as  to  the 
somewhat  remarkable  fact  of  the  proposal  having  been 
made  in  his  presence  and  accepted  within  the  quarter 
of  an  hour  that  had  elapsed  between  her  home-coming 
and  his.  If  she  had  known  that  he  had  left  Stone  Cot- 
tage within  about  three  minutes,  and  had  spent  the 
rest  of  the  time  calming  himself  by  a  walk  up  the 
village  street,  she  might  have  found  it,  in  fact,  still 
more  remarkable.  She  was  so  relieved,  however,  at 
finding  her  husband  prepared  to  accept  Mollie's  en- 
gagement, and  to  act  in  a  fatherly  way  towards  the 
young  couple,  that  she  rested  herself  upon  that,  and 
let  her  own  pleasure  in  the  happiness  that  had  come  to 
the  girl  she  loved  have  its  full  flow. 

Mrs.  Mercer  having  been  satisfied,  and  her  mouth 
incidentally  closed,  by  order,  the  more  difficult  task 
remained  to  placate  Mollie  and  Pemberton.  On  think- 
ing it  over  carefully,  with  wits  sharpened  by  a  real 
and  increasing  alarm,  the  Vicar  had  decided  that 
neither  of  those  two  would  wish  an  open  breach,  and 
would  welcome  an  assumption  upon  which  they  could 


354  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

avoid  it.  This  enabled  him  to  put  a  little  more  dignity 
into  his  letter  than  the  facts  entitled  him  to.  He  had, 
he  wrote,  entirely  misjudged  the  situation.  Nothing, 
naturally,  could  please  him  better  than  that  the  girl 
in  whom  he  had  taken  so  warm  an  interest  should  find 
happiness  in  a  suitable  marriage.  He  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  saying  that  this  struck  him  as  an  eminently 
suitable  marriage,  and  he  asked  her  to  believe  that  he 
was  sincere  in  wishing  her  all  joy  and  blessing  from  it. 
Anything  that  he  may  have  said  in  the  heat  of  the  mo- 
ment to  Mr.  Pemberton,  under  the  impression  that  his 
attentions  had  not  been  serious,  he  should  wish  unre- 
servedly to  apologise  for.  When  one  had  made  a  mis- 
take, it  was  the  part  of  an  honest  man  to  acknowledge 
it  frankly,  and  make  an  end  of  it.  He  thought  that 
it  might  be  more  agreeable  to  Mr.  Pemberton  that  this 
acknowledgment  should  be  conveyed  to  him  through 
Mollie.  He  did  not,  therefore,  propose  to  write  to  him 
himself,  but  trusted  that  no  more  would  be  thought  or 
said  of  what  had  passed. 

The  letter  ended  tentatively  on  the  note  of  his  old 
intercourse  with  Mollie,  and  the  last  sentences  gave  him 
more  trouble  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  if  his  overtures  were  not  accepted  this 
claim  to  something  special  in  the  way  of  affection  on 
both  sides  could  only  be  contemptuously  rejected,  and 
that  in  any  case  he  had  no  right  left  upon  which  to 
found  it. 

It  was  gall  and  bitterness  to  him  to  recall  her  stand- 
ing up  to  confront  him  with  her  clear  quiet  eyes  fixed 


SUNDAY  355 

upon  him,  searching  out  his  meanness,  and  of  her  lover 
with  his  hand  resting  on  her  shoulder  to  show  that  it 
was  he  in  whom  she  could  place  her  confidence  to  pro- 
tect her  against  the  claims  of  an  unworthy  jealousy. 
And  he  touched  the  bottom  of  the  cup  when  he  figured 
them  reading  his  letter  together  and  accepting  his  com- 
pact because  he  was  not  worth  while  their  making 
trouble  about,  his  sting  once  drawn ;  and  not  at  all 
because  they  believed  in  its  sincerity.  They  would 
know  well  enough  why  he  had  written  it,  especially  in 
the  light  of  his  wife's  ignorance  of  what  had  happened, 
which  he  would  not  be  able  to  prevent  her  showing  them. 
That  ignorant  loud-mannered  young  man  who  had  to 
be  apologised  to,  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  hardly 
accept  the  apology  without  feeling  if  not  showing  con- 
tempt !  It  shook  him  with  passion  to  think  of  his 
degradation  before  him,  and  of  what  was  being  given 
to  him  so  beautifully  and  freely.  There  was  not  in 
his  thoughts  a  vestige  of  the  feeling  that  he  would 
have  to  act  before  the  world — of  pleasure  that  the  girl 
towards  whom  he  claimed  to  have  given  nothing  but 
protecting  affection  should  have  found  her  happiness 
in  a  promising  love.  It  was  all  black  jealousy  and  re- 
sentment on  his  own  behalf,  and  resentment  against  her 
as  well  as  against  the  man  whom  she  had  chosen  for 
herself. 

And  yet  by  the  next  morning  he  had  persuaded  him- 
self that  some  of  those  feelings  which  he  would  have  to 
act  were  really  his.  Perhaps  in  some  sense  they  were, 
for  right  feelings  can  be  induced  where  the  necessity 


356  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

for  them  Is  recognised,  and  his  affection  for  MoUie  had 
actually  included  those  elements  which  he  had  so  stead- 
fastl}'  kept  in  the  foreground.  Also,  his  arrogance  and 
self-satisfaction  had  prevented  him  in  his  bitterest  mo- 
ments from  recognising  all  the  baseness  in  himself,  and 
gave  him  a  poor  support  in  thinking  that,  after  all, 
his  letter  showed  manliness  and  generosit}^,  and  might 
be  accepted  so.  He  had,  at  any  rate,  to  keep  up  his 
front  before  the  world,  and  by  the  time  he  met  and 
talked  to  the  Graftons  between  their  house  and  the 
church  his  good  opinion  of  himself  had  begun  to  re- 
vive. He  was  still  troubled  with  fears  as  to  how  his 
overtures  would  be  received.  Mollie  would  have  re- 
ceived his  letter  early  that  morning,  and  might  have 
come  over  with  her  answer ;  but  she  had  evidently 
waited  to  consult  over  it  with  her  lover.  He  had  pre- 
vented his  wife  running  over  to  the  Cottage,  saying 
that  they  would  meet  Mollie  either  before  or  after 
church.  And  so  it  had  to  be  left,  with  tremors  and 
deceptions  that,  one  would  have  thought,  must  have 
disturbed  him  greatly  in  the  duties  he  would  have  to 
fulfil  before  his  parishioners.  Yet  he  preached  a  ser- 
mon about  the  approaching  festival  of  the  church, 
which  denoted  in  his  view,  amongst  other  things,  that 
the  evil  passions  under  which  mankind  had  laboured 
since  the  creation  of  the  world  had  in  the  fulness  of 
time  found  their  remedy,  and  told  his  hearers,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  knew  what  he  was  talking  about,  that 
there  was  no  excuse  for  them  if  they  gave  way  to  any 
evil  passion  whatsoever,  since  the  remedy  was  always  to 


SUNDAY  357 

their  hand.  And  in  this  connection  he  wished  to  point 
out  to  them,  as  he  had  done  constantly  throughout  his 
ministry,  that  the  highest  means  of  grace  were  there 
at  their  very  doors  in  that  place  in  which  they  were 
gathered  together.  He  himself  was  always  to  be  found 
at  his  post,  and  woe  betide  any  of  them  who  neglected 
to  take  advantage  of  what  he  as  a  priest  of  the  church 
was  there  to  give  them.  The  sermon,  delivered  with 
his  usual  confidence,  not  to  say  pomposity,  did  him 
good.  He  felt  small  doubt  after  it  of  being  able  to 
control  the  situation  in  support  of  his  own  dignity, 
whatever  attitude  towards  him  Mollie  and  Bertie  Pem- 
berton  should  decide  to  adopt. 

In  the  meantime  those  young  lovers  were  spending 
an  hour  of  bliss  together.  They  talked  over  all  that 
had  led  up  to  their  present  happy  agreement,  and  found 
each  other  more  exactly  what  they  wanted  every  minute 
that  passed.  A  very  short  time  was  devoted  to  con- 
sideration of  the  Vicar's  letter.  "  Ah,  tear  it  up  and 
forget  all  about  the  blighter,"  said  Bertie,  handing  it 
back  to  her.  But  there  was  a  little  more  to  be  settled 
than  that.  Mrs.  Mercer  must  be  considered,  for  her 
own  sake  as  well  as  for  Mrs.  Walter's.  "  Well  then, 
you  can  say  '  how  do  you  do  '  to  the  fellow  and  leave 
it  at  that,"  said  Bertie.  "  If  he's  got  any  decency  in 
him  he  won't  want  to  push  himself,  and  if  he  does  you 
let  me  know,  and  I'll  deal  with  him.  I'm  letting  him 
off  cheap,  but  we  don't  want  to  bother  our  heads  with 
him.     You  needn't  answer  his  letter.     Tear  it  up." 

So  Mollie  tore  it  up  and  put  it  in  the  fire,  and  the 


358  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Vicar  was  forgotten  until  they  met  hira  and  Mrs.  Mer- 
cer on  their  way  to  the  Abbey. 

The  meeting  passed  off  with  less  awkwardness  than 
might  have  been  expected,  as  such  reparatory  meetings 
generally  do,  where  both  sides  are  willing  to  ignore 
the  past.  Mrs.  Walter  was  with  them,  having  been  per- 
suaded to  lunch  at  the  Abbey.  The  Vicar  addressed 
himself  chiefly  to  her,  while  his  wife  gushed  happily 
over  Mollie,  and  included  Bertie  in  her  address  in  a 
way  which  gave  him  a  good  opinion  of  her,  and  en- 
abled him  to  accept  the  Vicar's  stiff  word  of  con- 
gratulation with  one  of  thanks  before  he  turned  his 
back  upon  him.  It  was  over  in  a  very  short  time,  and 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mercer  pursued  their  way  homewards, 
the  lady  chattering  freely,  the  lord  holding  his  head 
on  high  and  accepting  with  patronising  affability  the 
salutations  of  such  of  his  parishioners  as  he  passed 
on  the  way.  He  was  already  reinstated  in  his  good 
opinion  of  himself,  and  said  to  his  wife  as  they  let 
themselves  into  their  house :  "  We  must  think  about  a 
present  for  Mollie.  We  ought  to  be  the  first.  We 
shall  see  her  often,  I  hope,  after  she's  married,  as  she 
won't  be  living  very  far  away." 

The  greetings  and  congratulations  at  the  Abbey  were 
such  as  to  reduce  Mollie  almost  to  tears  of  emotion, 
and  to  give  Bertie  a  higher  opinion  of  his  new  neigh- 
bours than  he  had  had  before,  though  his  opinion  of 
them  had  always  been  high.  They  were  among  warm 
personal  friends,  and  they  were  Mollie's  friends,  knitted 
to  her  by  what  she  had  shown  herself  to  be.    As  country 


SUNDAY  359 

neighbours  they  would  have  as  much  to  offer  as  any 
within  reach  of  the  place  where  these  two  would  live  out 
their  lives,  but  Bertie  Pemberton  would  never  have  en- 
joyed the  fullest  intimacy  with  them  apart  from  Mollie. 
She  wanted  no  exaltation  in  his  eyes,  but  it  gave  him 
an  added  pride  in  her  to  see  how  she  was  valued  by 
these  people  so  thoroughly  worth  knowing,  and  of 
pleasure  that  they  should  be  so  ready  to  take  him  into 
their  friendship  as  the  chosen  of  their  dear  Mollie. 

There  were  no  guests  from  outside  staying  at  the 
Abbey,  but  Worthing,  Maurice  Bradby  and  Jimmy 
Beckley  were  lunching  there.  Worthing's  congratula- 
tions were  hearty,  Bradby's  shy,  and  Jimmy's  solemn 
and  weighty.  "  My  dear  chap,"  he  said  with  a  tight 
grip  of  Bertie's  hand,  and  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes,  "  I  congratulate  you  on  taking  the  plunge.  It's 
the  best  thing  a  man  can  do.  I'm  sure  you've  chosen 
well  for  yourself,  and  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  regret 
it." 

"  Thanks,  old  boy,"  said  Bertie,  "  I  hope  I  shall  be 
able  to  say  the  same  to  you  some  day." 

"  It  may  be  sooner  than  you  think,"  said  Barbara, 
who  was  a  trifle  annoyed  with  Jimmy  at  the  moment  for 
having  given  himself  airs  over  her  in  these  matters. 
"  The  little  man  is  only  waiting  till  he  grows  up — say 
in  about  ten  years'  time." 

Jimmy  turned  a  wrathful  face  upon  her,  and  Young 
George  frowned  his  displeasure  at  this  tactless  humour. 
"  You're  inclined  to  let  your  tongue  run  away  with 
you,  Barbara,"  said  Jimmy,  with  great  dignity.     "  I 


360  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

need  only  point  out  that  I  shall  be  leaving  school  in 
three  years,  to  show  how  absurd  your  speech  is." 

"  You  really  do  overdo  it,  Barbara !  "  expostulated 
Young  George. 

"  He  got  a  swishing  last  half  for  trying  to  smoke," 
said  Barbara  remorselessly.  "  I  don't  suppose  he  suc- 
ceeded, because  it  would  have  made  him  sick." 

Jimmy  and  Young  George  then  withdrew,  to  concoct 
plans  for  bringing  Barbara  to  a  right  sense  of  what 
was  due  to  men  of  their  age,  and  Barbara,  to  consoli- 
date her  victory,  called  out  after  them,  "  You'll 
find  cigarettes  in  Dad's  room,  if  you'd  like  to  try 
again." 

"  Barbara  darling,"  said  Miss  Waterhouse,  "  I  don't 
think  you  should  tease  Jimmy  so  unmercifully  as  you 
do.     Children  of  that  age  are  apt  to  be  sensitive." 

The  whole  of  the  Pemberton  family  motored  over  in 
the  afternoon,  and  Mollie's  acceptance  into  the  bosom 
of  it  left  nothing  to  be  desired  in  heartiness  or  good- 
will. Old  Mr.  Pemberton  kissed  her,  and  said  that 
though  he'd  never  been  more  surprised  in  his  life,  he  had 
never  been  more  pleased.  He  thought  that  the  sooner 
they  were  married  the  better,  and  he  should  see  about 
getting  a  house  ready  for  them  the  next  day.  Mrs. 
Pemberton  said  she  had  never  credited  Bertie  with  so 
much  sense.  He  wasn't  all  that  MoUie  probably 
thought  he  was,  but  they  would  all  be  there  to  keep  him 
in  order  if  she  found  the  task  too  much  for  her.  A 
slight  moisture  of  the  eyes,  as  she  warmly  embraced  the 
girl,  belied  the  sharpness  of  her  speech,  and  she  talked 


SUNDAY  361 

afterwards  to  Mrs.  Walter  in  a  way  that  showed  she 
liad  already  taken  Mollie  into  a  heart  that  was  full  of 
warmth  and  kindness.  There  was  no  doubt  about  the 
genuineness  of  the  pleasure  expressed  by  Nora,  Effie 
and  Kate,  who  were  loud  and  tender  at  the  same  time, 
and  amply  supported  their  widespread  reputation  as 
real  good  sorts. 

Beatrix  was  rather  ashamed  of  herself  for  the  doubts 
she  had  felt  as  to  whether  the  Pemberton  family  would 
think  that  the  heir  to  its  dignities  and  estates  was 
doing  well  enough  for  himself  in  marrying,  as  they 
might  have  put  it  from  their  standpoint  and  in  their 
lingo,  out  of  their  beat.  But  they  made  it  plain  that 
their  beat  took  in  all  that  Mollie  represented  in  sweet 
and  desirable  girlhood  as  of  chief  account,  and  were 
rejoiced  that  she  should  tread  it  with  them. 

Mrs.  Walter  was  almost  overcome  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  occurrence,  and  the  strong  flood  of  kindness  and 
happiness  that  it  had  set  in  motion.  She  was  a  woman 
with  a  meek  habit  of  mind,  which  her  long  years  of 
servitude  had  not  lessened.  She  had  accepted  the  in- 
sinuation that  had  run  all  through  the  Vicar's  addresses 
on  the  subject  of  Mollie  and  Bertie  Pemberton — that 
the  Pembertons  were  in  a  social  position  much  superior 
to  her  own,  though  not,  as  it  had  alwaj's  been  implied, 
to  his,  and  that  in  any  attentions  that  the  young  man 
might  give  to  her  daughter  there  could  be  no  design  of 
ultimate  marriage.  Her  dignity  had  not  been  wounded 
by  the  presentation  of  the  Pemberton  superiority,  and 
had  only  asserted  itself  when  he  had  seemed  to  hint 


362  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

that  she  might  be  anxious  to  bridge  the  gulf  between 
them.  But  here  were  these  people,  whom  she  had  been 
invited  to  look  upon  in  that  way,  welcoming  not  only 
her  daughter  as  a  particular  treasure  that  she  was  to 
be  thanked  for  giving  up  to  them,  but  including  herself 
in  their  welcome.  Old  Mr.  Pemberton  told  her  that  if 
she  would  like  to  live  nearer  to  her  daughter  after  her 
marriage  he  would  find  a  little  house  for  her  too;  and 
Mrs.  Pemberton  seemed  anxious  to  assure  her  that  they 
did  not  want  to  take  Mollie  away  from  her  altogether, 
but  wished  her  to  share  in  all  that  the  marriage  would 
bring  to  them.  Bertie  was  admirable  with  her.  It  was 
a  sign  of  the  rightness  of  his  love  for  Mollie,  which 
had  changed  him  in  so  many  respects,  that  he  should 
be  able  to  present  himself  to  this  mild  faded  elderly 
woman,  to  whom  he  would  certainly  not  have  troubled 
to  commend  himself  before,  as  a  considerate  and  affec- 
tionate son.  He  had  already  embarked  upon  a  way 
of  treating  her — with  a  sort  of  protecting  humour, 
compounded  of  mild  chaff  and  little  careful  attentions 
— which  gave  her  the  sensation  of  being  looked  after 
and  made  much  of  in  a  way  that  no  man  had  done  since 
the  death  of  her  husband.  So  she  was  to  be  looked 
after  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  not  to  be  parted  from 
her  daughter,  but  to  have  a  son  given  her  in  addition. 
She  had  begun  the  day  with  fears  and  tremors.  She 
ended  it  in  deep  thankfulness,  and  happiness  such  as  she 
had  never  thought  would  be  hers  again. 

Bertie   found   opportunity   for   a   little  word   alone 
with  Beatrix  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon. 


SUNDAY  363 

"  Well,  I've  fixed  it  up,  you  see,"  he  said,  with  a 
happ}'  grin,  "  thanks  to  you." 

"  I  saw  you  going  to  do  it,"  said  Beatrix.  "  You 
looked  very  determined.     Was  there  much  difficulty.-^  " 

"  Seemed  to  come  about  quite  natural  somehow,"  he 
said.  "  But  I  haven't  got  used  to  my  luck  yet,  all  the 
same.  You  were  right  when  you  said  I  wasn't  good 
enough  for  that  angel." 

"  I  don't  say  it  now,"  said  Beatrix.  "  I  think  you'll 
do  very  well.  But  she  is  an  angel,  and  you're  never  to 
forget  it." 

"  Not  likely  to,"  said  Bertie. 


CHAPTER    XXy 

NEWS 

The  whole  Grafton  family  and  Miss  Waterhouse,  as 
the  Vicar  had  discovered  through  one  of  those  channels 
open  to  Vicars  who  take  an  interest  in  the  intimate 
doings  of  their  flock,  had  been  asked  to  dine  at  Surley 
Park  on  that  Sunday  evening.  It  was  not,  of  course,  a 
dinner-party,  to  which  the  Bishop  might  have  objected, 
but  considering  the  number  of  guests  staying  in  the 
house  it  was  near  enough  to  give  pleasure  on  that 
account  to  Barbara  and  Young  George.  Their  view 
of  the  entertainment  was  satisfied  by  the  costumes,  the 
setting  of  the  table,  and  the  sparkling  but  decorous 
conversation,  in  which  both  of  them  were  encouraged 
to  take  a  due  share ;  the  Bishop's  by  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  soup  and  the  joint  was  cold,  which  might  almost 
have  justified  its  being  regarded  as  Sunday  supper,  if 
one  were  of  the  religious  school  which  considered  that 
meal  to  be  the  fitting  close  of  the  the  day ;  also  by  the 
presence  of  the  Curate  of  the  parish,  taking  his  due 
refreshment  of  mind  and  body  after  the  labours  of 
the  day. 

The  guests   from   outside  were   chiefly   relations   of 
Mrs.  Carruthers  and  of  the  Bishop,  elderly  well-placed 

864 


NEWS  365 

people  for  the  most  part,  not  markedly  ecclesiastical  in 
their  interests  or  conversation,  though  affairs  of  the 
church  were  not  left  untouched  upon,  out  of  deference 
to  their  distinguished  relative.  But  there  were  one  or 
two  younger  people,  and  among  them  an  American 
bride,  Lady  Wargrave,  who  was  on  her  first  visit  to 
England,  and  kept  the  company  alive  by  her  comments 
and  criticisms  on  all  that  was  new  to  her  in  the  coun- 
try of  her  adoption. 

A  matter  of  some  interest  to  the  Graftons  was  the 
way  in  which  Denis  Cooper  had  acquitted  himself  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  his  superior  officer  in  the  religious 
exercises  of  the  day.  They  had  no  particular  interest 
in  him  personally,  as  he  was  not  of  the  character  to 
expend  himself  in  social  intercourse  with  his  neighbours 
against  the  obstacles  of  his  home.  He  and  his  sisters 
appeared  regularly  at  all  the  country  houses  around 
when  it  was  a  question  of  some  festivity  to  which  the 
invitations  were  general,  but  the  two  ladies  were  not 
exactly  popular  among  their  neighbours,  and  had  al- 
ways hitherto  kept  a  firm  hand  upon  the  doings  of  their 
much  younger  brother.  They  disliked  his  going  inti- 
mately to  houses  at  which  they  themselves  were  not 
made  welcome,  and  during  the  two  months  since  he 
had  taken  ostensible  charge  of  his  father's  parish  he 
had  not  done  so.  So  the  Graftons  hardly  knew  him, 
but  were  interested  on  general  grounds  in  the  little 
comedy  of  patronage  which  was  being  enacted  before 
their  eyes.  It  was  fresh  to  them,  these  desires  and 
jealousies  in  connection  with  a  factor  of  country  life 


366  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

which  hardly  shows  up  in  a  city,  except  in  those  circles 
in  which  all  church  affairs  are  of  importance.  All  over 
the  country  are  these  pleasant  houses  and  gardens  and 
globes,  with  an  income  larger  or  smaller  attached  to 
them,  and  a  particular  class  of  men  to  whom  their  dis- 
posal is  of  extreme  interest.  In  this  case  there  was 
one  of  the  prizes  involved,  and  they  knew  at  least  two 
of  the  candidates,  for  their  own  Vicar  had  made  it  plain 
enough  that  he  was  one  of  them,  and  here  was  the 
other.  Here  also  was  the  authority  with  whom  it 
lay  to  award  the  prize.  His  decision  could  not  ba 
foreseen,  but  might  be  guessed  at,  and  any  signs  of 
it  that  might  be  visible  under  their  eyes  were  of 
value. 

Their  sympathies  inclined  towards  the  candidature 
of  Denis  Cooper,  in  spite  of  their  small  acquaintance 
with  him.  It  would  be  a  sporting  thing  if  he  were  to 
pull  it  off,  against  the  handicap  of  his  extreme  youth. 
On  the  other  hand,  if  their  own  Vicar  should  be  ap- 
pointed, he  would  be  removed  from  the  sphere  of  his 
present  labours  and,  apart  from  the  relief  that  this 
would  afford  them  in  itself,  it  would  be  followed  by 
another  little  comedy,  in  which  they  would  all  take  a 
hand  themselves.  For  it  would  lay  with  their  father 
to  appoint  a  successor,  and  it  was  not  to  be  supposed 
that  he  would  undertake  a  task  of  such  importance 
except  in  full  consultation  with  themselves.  On  the 
balance,  however,  they  were  supporters  of  Denis  Cooper, 
and  it  looked  well  for  his  chances  that  when  they  en- 
tered  the   morning-room   of    Surley   Park,   where   the 


NEWS  367 

guests  were  assembled,  the  Bishop  was  seen  standing 
by  the  fire-place  with  his  hand  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder. 

Ella  Carruthers  found  an  opportunity  before  dinner 
was  announced  of  confiding  to  Caroline  and  Beatrix 
that  he  had  acquitted  himself  well.  "  Really  I  believe 
I'm  going  to  pull  it  off,"  she  said.  "  It's  very  good  of 
me  to  take  so  much  trouble  about  Denis  because  it 
means  my  saddling  myself  with  Rhoda  and  Ethel,  when 
I  should  so  much  like  to  get  rid  of  them.  Still,  if  I 
succeed  in  getting  him  firmly  planted  in  the  Rectory 
I  shall  set  about  finding  him  a  wife,  and  then  they'll 
have  to  go.  They  won't  like  it,  and  they'll  make  trouble, 
which  I  shall  enjoy  very  much." 

"  Was  the  Bishop  pleased  with  his  sermons .''  "  asked 
Caroline. 

"  He  only  preached  one,"  she  said.  "  My  uncle  per- 
formed in  the  afternoon,  I  think  with  the  idea  of  show- 
ing him  how  much  better  he  could  do  it  himself.  But 
of  the  two  I  liked  Denis's  sermon  the  better.  It  was 
more  learned,  and  didn't  take  so  long." 

"  Was  he  pleased  with  Denis?  "  asked  Beatrix.  "  It 
looked  like  it  when  we  came  in.  I  believe  they  were 
telling  one  another  funny  stories." 

"  Oh,  yes.  He  said  he  seemed  an  honest  manly  young 
fellow,  and  not  too  anxious  to  push  himself." 

"  Was  that  a  dig  at  Rhoda  and  Ethel,  do  you  sup- 
pose.'' " 

"  I  took  it  so.  I  said  they  were  very  tiresome  in  the 
way  they  tried  to  direct  everything  and  everybody. 


368  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

but  that  Denis  wasn't  like  them  at  all.  All  the  people 
in  the  place  loved  his  old  father,  and  liked  him  too." 

"Do  you  think  he  took  that  in.''" 

"  I  hope  so,  though,  of  course,  he  wouldn't  commit 
himself.  I  think  he's  sized  up  Rhoda  and  Ethel,  though, 
for  he  asked  me  when  Mrs.  Cooper  died,  and  said  that 
he  had  heard  that  she  had  been  a  very  managing 
woman.  I  say,  did  you  know  that  your  Lord  Salisbury 
actually  came  over  here  to  church  this  afternoon.''" 

"  Our  Lord  Salisbury !  "  exclaimed  Beatrix. 

"  I  don't  think  he  did  any  good  for  himself.  I  had 
to  ask  him  to  tea,  as  he  hung  about  after  church,  and 
we  were  all  walking  up  together.  But  I  took  care  to 
let  my  uncle  see  that  I  was  forced  into  it.  He  was 
quite  friendly  with  him,  but  didn't  give  him  the  whole 
of  his  attention,  as  he  seemed  to  expect.  Oh,  he  sees 
into  things  all  right,  the  clever  old  dear !  I  should 
say  that  Lord  Salisbury's  forcing  himself  in  like  that 
has  put  him  out  of  the  betting.  I  don't  know  what 
others  there  are  running,  but  I'd  stake  a  pair  of  gloves 
on  Denis's  chances,  and  I  shall  try  to  do  a  little  more 
for  him  still  before  I've  finished." 

The  number  of  guests  made  a  general  conversation 
round  the  dinner-table  of  infrequent  occurrence,  though 
whenever  the  Bishop  showed  signs  of  wishing  to  address 
the  assembly  he  was  allowed  to  do  so,  and  Lady  War- 
grave  sometimes  succeeded,  more  by  the  gaiety  and  wit 
of  her  speech  than  by  its  high-pitched  note,  in  making 
herself  listened  to  by  everybody.  It  was  fortunate, 
however,  for  what  hung  upon  it,  that  a  certain  con- 


NEWS  369 

versatlon  in  which  she  bore  a  leading  part  towards 
the  end  of  the  meal  was  confined  to  her  end  of  the  table. 

She  was  talking  of  transatlantic  marriages  in  gen- 
eral, and  her  own  in  particular.  "  I'd  like  everybody 
to  know,"  she  said,  "  that  I  married  for  love.  Now 
do  tell  me,  Bishop,  from  what  you  can  see  at  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  that  you  think  I  am  speaking  the 
truth." 

Lord  Wargrave,  at  that  moment  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  a  dignified-looking  dowager,  was  good- 
looking  enough,  in  a  rather  heavy  British  way,  to  make 
the  claim  not  unreasona,ble,  though  he  was  by  no 
means  the  equal  of  his  wife  in  that  respect. 

"  I  can  believe  that  you  both  fell  in  love  with  each 
other,"  said  the  Bishop  benignly. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  hope  you  are  not 
being  sarcastic.  Lots  of  our  girls  do  marry  for  the 
sake  of  a  title,  and  I  won't  say  that  it's  not  funny  to 
be  called  My  Lady  just  at  first.  Still  it  wears  oif 
after  a  bit,  and  isn't  worth  giving  up  your  American 
citizenship  for." 

"  Would  you  rather  Lord  Wargrave  had  been  a 
plain  American  citizen  instead  of  an  Englishman  with 
a  title.?"  asked  Ella. 

"  Why,  sure  !    I'm  telling  you  so." 

"  But  you  do  like  Englishmen,  all  the  same,"  sug- 
gested the  Bishop. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  say  that  I  like  Englishmen  as 
much  as  Americans.  Nothing  will  drag  that  from  me, 
if  I  never  set  foot  in  the  States  again.    But  as  to  that, 


370  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

Wargrave  has  promised  me  a  trip  every  two  years. 
I  wouldn't  have  married  him  without,  though  you  can 
see  that  I  adore  him,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  showing 
it." 

"  Well  then,  you  like  Englishmen  next  best  to  Ameri- 
cans." 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  though  I  think  Frenchmen  are  real 
cute.  They've  a  Avay  with  them.  With  an  Englishman 
you  generally  have  to  do  more  than  half  yourself. 
With  a  Frenchman  you've  got  to  be  mighty  smart  to 
see  that  you  get  the  chance  of  doing  your  half.  With 
an  Englishman,  when  you're  once  married  it's  finished, 
but  I  should  judge  that  you  would  have  to  get  busy  and 
keep  busy,  married  to  a  Frenchman." 

Ella  Carruthers  stole  a  look  at  Beatrix,  who  was 
seated  a  few  places  away  from  her.  She  had  been  talk- 
ing to  her  neighbour,  but  now  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  speaker.  Her  colour  was  a  little  heightened, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  tell  from  her  look  what  she 
was  thinking.  Ella  hoped  for  her  sake  that  the  con- 
versation would  not  be  continued  on  that  subject,  and 
prepared  her  wits  to  divert  it.  But  the  next  moment 
something  had  been  said  which  changed  her  feeling  from 
one  of  sympathy  with  Beatrix  to  one  of  sharp  alarm 
on  her  behalf. 

"  A  French  Marquis  came  to  N'York  last  fall,"  pur- 
sued Lady  Wargrave,  "  who  was  the  cutest  thing  in  the 
way  of  European  nobility  you  ever  struck.  He  talked 
English  like  an  Amuncan,  and  was  a  poifectly  lovely 
man   to   look   at.      One   of   my   girl   friends    has   just 


NEWS  371 

gotten  engaged  to  him ;  I  had  the  noos  from  her  last 
mail.  Of  course  I  wrote  back  that  I  was  enchanted, 
but  if  he  had  wanted  me  there'd  have  been  no  Marquise 
yet  awhile.  But  I  wasn't  rich  enough  anyway.  The 
Frenchmen  who  come  over  are  always  out  for  the  dol- 
lars, the  Englishmen  let  them  go  by  sometimes.  War- 
grave  did.  He  could  have  had  one  of  our  big  fortunes, 
If  he  wouldn't  rather  have  had  me." 

Poor  little  Beatrix !  She  was  spared  the  hammer- 
stroke  of  hearing  her  lover's  name  in  public,  but  there 
was  never  any  doubt  in  her  mind  that  it  was  he.  She 
turned  dead  white,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Lady 
Wargrave  until  she  had  finished  her  speech  and  passed 
on  lightly  to  some  other  topic.  Then  she  turned  to 
her  neighbour  and  listened  to  something  he  was  saying 
to  her,  but  without  hearing  it,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
leave  off  pealing  the  orange  she  held  because  her  hands 
were  trembling. 

There  happened  to  be  nobody  at  that  end  of  the 
table,  listening  to  Lady  Wargrave,  who  could  connect 
her  speech  with  Beatrix,  except  Ella  Carruthers.  Bea- 
trix, when  she  had  sat  still  and  silent  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  her  suddenly  with  an  appealing  look,  and 
found  her  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  the  deepest  concern. 
That  enabled  her  to  overcome  her  tremors.  She  would 
have  broken  down  if  Ella,  by  any  word,  had  drawn 
attention  to  her.  She  suddenly  turned  to  her  neigh- 
bour and  began  to  chatter.  He  was  an  elderly  man, 
interested  in  his  dinner,  who  had  not  noticed  her  sud- 
den pallor.     As  she  talked,  her  colour  came  back  to 


372  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

her,  and  she  hardly  left  off  talking  until  the  sign  was 
given,  rather  prematurely,  for  the  ladies  to  leave  the 
table.  Her  knees  were  trembling  as  she  rose  from  her 
seat,  and  she  was  glad  of  Ella's  arm  to  support  her 
as  she  walked  from  the  room. 

"  No,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  low-spoken  word  of 
going  upstairs.  "  I  don't  want  to.  Ask  if  it's  he — 
but  I  know  it  is — and  tell  Caroline  to  come  and  tell 
me." 

She  made  her  way  to  a  sofa  in  a  corner  of  the  big 
drawing-room,  and  sat  down,  while  the  rest  of  the 
women  clustered  around  the  chimney-piece.  She  sat 
there  waiting,  without  thought  and  without  much  sen- 
sation. She  was  conscious  only  of  revolt  against  the 
blow  that  had  been  dealt  her,  and  determination  to 
support  it. 

Presently  Caroline  came  to  her,  her  soft  eyes  full 
of  trouble.  "  My  darling !  "  she  said  tenderly,  sitting 
down  by  her. 

"  You  needn't  say  it,"  she  said  quickly.  "  If  he's 
like  that  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  scene.  Pretend  to 
talk  to  me,  and  presently  I'll  go  and  talk  to  the  others." 

She  had  an  ardent  wish  to  throw  it  all  off  from  her, 
not  to  care,  and  to  show  that  she  didn't  care.  But  her 
knees  were  trembling  again,  and  she  could  not  have 
walked  across  the  room. 

Caroline  was  near  tears.  "  Oh,  it's  wicked — the  way 
he  has  treated  you,"  she  said.  "  You're  going  to  for- 
get him,  aren't  you,  my  darling  B.?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  said  Beatrix,  hurriedly.     "  I'll 


NEWS  373 

think  no  more  of  hira  at  all.    I've  got  you — and  Daddy 
— and  the  Dragon." 

The  mention  of  Miss  Waterhousc  may  have  been 
drawn  from  her  by  the  approach  of  that  lady,  though 
she  had  been  all  the  mother  to  her  that  she  had  ever 
known  and  she  did  feel  at  that  moment  that  there 
was  consolation  in  her  love. 

Miss  Waterhouse  did  not  allow  her  tenderness  to 
overcome  her  authority,  though  her  tenderness  was 
apparent  as  she  said :  "  Darling  B,  you  won't  be  feeling 
well.  I  have  asked  Ella  to  send  for  the  car,  and  I  shall 
take  you  home.  We  will  go  quietly  upstairs,  now,  be- 
fore the  men  come  in." 

Beatrix  protested.  She  was  perfectly  all  right,  and 
didn't  want  any  fuss  made  about  her.  She  was  rather 
impatient,  and  burning  to  show  that  she  didn't  care. 
But  as  most  of  the  people  towards  whom  she  would  have 
to  make  the  exhibition  wouldn't  know  that  she  had 
any  reason  to  care,  it  seemed  hardly  worth  the  ex- 
penditure of  energy,  of  which,  at  that  moment,  she 
had  none  too  much  to  spare.  Also  she  did  care,  and 
the  thought  of  getting  away  quietly  and  being  herself, 
in  whatever  guise  her  feelings  might  prompt,  was  im- 
mensely soothing.  So  she  and  Miss  Waterhouse  slipped 
out  of  the  room,  and  by  the  time  the  men  came  into 
it  were  on  their  way  home. 

It  was  Caroline  who  told  her  father.  She  had  a  little 
dreaded  his  first  word  and  look.  In  some  ways,  over 
this  affair  of  Beatrix's,  he  had  not  been  quite  as  she 
had  learnt  to  know  him.     He  had  lost  that  complete 


374  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

mastery  which  long  years  of  unfailing  kindness  and 
gentleness  had  given  him  over  his  children.  He  had 
shown  annoyance  and  resentment,  and  had  made  com- 
plaints, which  one  who  is  firmly  in  authority  does  not 
do.  Some  weakness,  under  the  stress  of  feeling,  had 
come  out  in  him,  instead  of  the  equable  strength  which 
his  children  had  learnt  to  rely  on.  Perhaps  Caroline 
loved  him  all  the  more  for  it,  for  it  was  to  her  he  had 
come  more  than  to  any  other  for  sympathy  and  support. 
But  she  did  not  want  to  have  to  make  any  further  re- 
adjustments. Which  of  the  mixed  and  opposing  feel- 
ings would  he  show  first,  on  the  news  being  broken 
to  him — the  great  relief  it  would  bring  to  himself,  or 
the  sympathy  he  would  certainly  feel  towards  his  child 
who  had  been  hurt. 

"  Daddy  darling,"  she  said,  drawing  him  a  little 
aside,  "  B  and  the  Dragon  have  gone  home.  She  heard 
at  dinner  that  Lassigny  is  going  to  be  married.  She's 
all  right,  but  the  Dragon  made  her  go  home." 

His  face — that  of  a  man  whom  a  sufficiency,  but  not 
an  overplus,  of  food  and  wine  and  tobacco  had  put 
into  just  accord  with  the  world  about  him — expressed 
little  but  bewilderment.  "  Heard  at  dinner ! "  he 
echoed.     "  Who  on  earth  told  her?  " 

"  Lady  Wargrave.  She  had  had  a  letter  from 
America." 

He  threw  a  look  at  that  resplendent  lady,  whose  high 
but  not  unmusical  voice  was  riding  the  stream  of  talk. 
Her  beautiful  face  and  form,  her  graceful  vivacity,  and 
the  perfection  of  her  attire  were  such  as  naturally  to 


NEWS  375 

have  attracted  round  her  magnet-wise  the  male  filings 
of  after-dinner  re-assembly.  Grafton  himself,  casting 
an  unattached  but  attachable  eye  round  him  on  enter- 
ing the  room,  would  have  made  his  way  instinctively  to 
the  group  in  which  she  was  sitting. 

"  Damn  the  woman !  "  he  said  vindictively. 
Caroline  took  hold  of  the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  kissed 
him,  in  defiance  of  company  manners.    "  Hush,  darling ! 
The  Bishop !  "  she  said. 

Throughout  the  short  hour  that  followed  he  was 
vivacious  and  subdued  by  turns.  He  had  no  more  than 
a  few  words  alone  with  his  hostess.  "  Poor  little  B !  " 
she  said  commiseratingly. 

"  Yes,  poor  little  B  !  "  he  echoed.  "  Are  you  sure 
it's  that  fellow.?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  said  so,  when  I  asked  her.  I  didn't 
tell  her  why  I  had  asked.  You  can  talk  to  her  about 
it  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  good  Lord,  no !  "  he  said.  "  I  don't  want  to 
hear  the  fellow's  name  again.  What  has  happened  to 
him  is  nothing  to  me,  if  we've  got  rid  of  him.  Of 
course  I'm  glad  of  it.  It  shows  I  was  right  about  him. 
Now  I  shall  get  my  little  girl  back  again." 

It  was  the  sort  of  speech  that  Caroline  had  vaguely 
feared.  Ella  Carruthers  said,  with  a  smile :  "  You  can't 
expect  to  keep  her  long,  you  know.  But  I'm  glad  this 
is  at  an  end,  as  you  so  much  disliked  it." 

Going  home  in  the  car,  at  a  comparatively  early 
hour,  because  bishops  are  supposed  to  want  to  go  to 
bed  on  Sunday  evenings,  they  talked  it  over.     Bunting 


376  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

had  heard  the  news  from  Barbara,  and  was  inclined 
to  take  a  serious  view  of  it. 

"  I  think  it's  disgraceful  to  throw  over  a  girl  like 
that,"  he  said.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it,  Dad?" 

"  There's  nothing  to  be  done,"  said  his  father,  "  ex- 
cept to  help  B  to  forget  all  about  him.  Of  course  she'll 
be  very  much  hurt,  but  when  she's  had  time  to  think  it 
over  she'll  see  for  herself  that  he  wasn't  worth  what  she 
gave  him.  It  won't  want  any  rubbing  in.  Better  leave 
him  alone  altogether,  and  forget  about  him  ourselves." 

Caroline  put  out  her  hand,  and  gave  his  a  squeeze. 
Barbara  said :  "  You  were  quite  right  about  him,  after 
all.  Daddy." 

"  Well,  it  looks  like  it,"  he  answered.  "  But  when 
somebody  else  has  been  hurt  you're  not  going  to  help 
them  get  over  it  by  saying,  '  I  told  you  so.'  Poor  little 
B  has  been  hurt,  and  that's  all  we've  got  to  put  right 
at  present." 

"  There's  the  show  coming  on,"  said  Bunting. 
"  That'll  interest  her.  And  Jimmy  will  take  care  not  to 
badger  her  at  rehearsals.  He's  a  kind-hearted  chap, 
and  he'll  understand." 

"  He's  a  pompous  conceited  little  ass,"  said  Barbara, 
in  whom  the  remembrance  of  certain  passages  of  the 
afternoon  still  rankled.  *'  But  perhaps  he'll  make  her 
laugh,  which  will  be  something." 

"  He  can  be  very  funny  when  he  likes,"  said  Bunting 
guilelessly. 

"  Not  half  so  funny  as  when  he  doesn't  like,"  returned 


NEWS  377 

Barbara.  "  You  know,  Daddy,  I  think  B  will  get  over 
it  pretty  soon,  if  we  leave  her  alone.  I  believe  she'd 
begun  to  like  him  not  so  much." 

"You  observed  that,  did  you?"  said  her  father. 
"  Well,  if  it  is  so  it  will  make  it  all  the  easier  for  her." 

Beatrix  had  gone  to  bed  when  they  got  in.  Miss 
Waterhouse  said  that  she  had  taken  it  better  than  she 
had  expected.  She  had  been  relieved  at  getting  away 
from  Surley,  and  the  necessity  to  play  a  part,  had 
cried  a  little  in  the  car  going  home,  but  not  as  if  she 
were  likely  to  break  down,  and  had  said  she  didn't 
want  to  talk  about  it.  But  Caroline  might  go  to  her 
when  she  came  in. 

"  Give  her  my  love  and  a  kiss,"  said  Grafton,  "  and 
come  down  and  talk  to  me  afterwards.    It's  early  yet." 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

THE  LAST 

Caroline  came  down  to  him  in  her  dressing-gown, 
with  her  fair  hair  hanging  in  a  plait  down  her  back, 
as  she  had  been  wont  to  do  as  a  child  when  he  had 
wanted  her,  and  she  had  been  so  pleased  and  proud  to 
keep  him  company.  Latterly  he  had  not  seemed  to 
want  her  quite  so  much.  His  easy  life  had  been  trou- 
bled, as  it  had  never  been  before  in  her  recollection, 
except  after  her  mother's  death,  and  then  she  had 
known,  child  as  she  was,  that  she  had  been  able  to  give 
him  consolation.  In  this  so  much  smaller  trouble  she 
knew  she  had  not  sufficed  for  him.  One  soul,  however 
deeply  loved,  cannot  heal  the  wounds  dealt  to  love  by 
another,  though  it  may  assuage  them.  He  had  wanted 
Beatrix's  love  more  than  hers,  because  hers  had  never 
been  in  question.  But  there  was  no  depth  of  jealousy 
in  her  true  tender  nature,  only  little  ruffles  on  the  sur- 
face. She  had  felt  for  him.  If  he  got  back  to  be  what 
he  wanted  with  Beatrix,  he  would  be  not  less  to  her 
but  more.  And  he  was  most  of  what  she  wanted  at 
that  time. 

She  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  before  the  fire, 
and  hoped  he  would  take  her  on  his  knee,  as  he  had 
always  done  when  she  had  kept  him  company  as  a  child. 

378 


THE  LAST  379 

Perhaps  that  was  why  she  had  prepared  herself  for  the 
night  before  coming  to  him. 

He  gazed  into  the  fire,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 
"  She  sent  you  her  love,"  she  said,  her  lip  and  her 
voice  quivering  a  little  with  her  disappointment. 

He  roused  himself  and  looked  up  at  her,  catching  the 
note  of  emotion,  but  not  understanding  its  cause,  then 
drew  her  on  to  his  knee  and  kissed  her.  "  My  darling," 
he  said,  and  she  put  her  face  to  his  neck  and  cried  a 
little,  but  not  from  unhappiness. 

"  I'm  very  silly,"  she  said,  searching  for  the  hand- 
kerchief in  the  pocket  of  his  smoking- jacket,  and  dry- 
ing her  eyes  with  it.  "  There's  nothing  to  cry  about, 
really.  She's  going  to  be  all  right.  I'm  glad  it's  all 
over,  and  so  will  she  be  very  soon."  Then  she  gave  a 
little  laugh,  and  said :  "  We've  had  a  hog  of  a  time, 
haven't  we.  Dad?" 

It  was  one  of  his  own  phrases,  thus  consecrated  for 
use  in  the  family  on  all  suitable  occasions.  That  this 
could  be  considered  one  was  her  rejection  of  unnecessary 
emotion. 

"  You've  been  very  good  about  it,  darling,"  he  said, 
some  sense  of  not  having  given  her  the  place  due  to 
her  love  stealing  upon  him.  "  I  shouldn't  have  got 
through  it  as  well  as  I  have,  but  for  you." 

This  was  balm  to  her.  He  had  not  yet  put  a  question 
to  her  as  to  Beatrix,  and  she  made  haste  to  satisfy  him. 

"  She's  sorry  she  went  against  you  so  much,"  she  said. 
"  But  before  she  knew — last  night — she  says  she  wanted 
you  more  than  she  had  done  for  a  long  time.      She 


380  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

thinks  now  she  would  have  come  not  to  want  liim  so 
much,  even  if — if  this  hadn't  happened." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,"  he  said.  "  I  felt  it,  and  half- 
hoped  it  might  mean  that,  but  didn't  like  to  hope  too 
much.  You  know,  darling,  it  was  more  instinct  with 
me  than  anything.  It  didn't  seem  to  me  a  right — 
what  shall  I  say? — a  right  combination — those  two. 
When  I  was  tackled  about  it — by  Aunt  Katherine  and 
others — I  couldn't  put  up  much  of  a  defence.  But  none 
of  them  ever  made  me  feel  any  different,  though  I  gave 
way.  I  should  have  hated  it,  always,  if  it  had  come  off. 
I  couldn't  have  helped  myself,  though  I  should  have 
tried  to  make  the  best  of  it  for  B's  sake.  Didn't  you 
feel  it  wouldn't  have  done  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  hadn't  felt  it,  and 
the  thought  troubled  her  loyal  mind  that  because  she 
had  not  been  able  to  show  him  that  her  instinct  was 
with  his,  which  now  had  proved  itself  to  be  the  right 
one,  she  had  failed  him.  "  I  don't  think  anybody  saw 
it  plainly  but  you,  darling,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  we 
didn't  know  enough.  It's  fortunate  that  it  has  turned 
out  as  it  has." 

"  Well,  there  it  is,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  It's 
lucky  that  it  has  turned  out  as  it  has.  If  it  hadn't, 
although  I  felt  what  I  did  about  it,  I  couldn't  have 
done  anything — shouldn't  have  done  anything.  You 
want  to  save  your  child,  and  you  can't  do  it.  You 
can't  act,  in  these  matters,  on  what  your  judgment 
tells  you,  unless  you've  got  a  clear  reason  that  all  the 
world   will   recognise.      If   you    do,    the   whole   pack's 


THE  LAST  381 

against  you,  and  the  child  you're  doing  it  for  at  the 
head  of  them.  Perhaps  it's  weakness  to  give  way,  as 
I  did,  but  for  the  little  I  did  manage  to  bring  about 
I've  gone  through,  as  you  say,  a  hog  of  a  time.  If 
I'd  done  more  I  should  have  lost  more  still,  and  she'd 
never  have  known  that  what  has  happened  now  didn't 
happen  because  of  me.  It's  a  difficult  position  for  us 
fathers  who  love  their  daughters  and  whose  love  doesn't 
count  against  the  other  fellow's,  when  it  comes  along, 
even  when  it  isn't  all  it  ought  to  be.  That  B  has  been 
saved  this  time — it's  a  piece  of  luck.  It  makes  you 
think  a  bit.  You  can't  take  it  in  and  be  glad  of  it  all 
at  once." 

She  could  not  follow  all  of  this  expression  of  the 
time-old  problem  of  fatherhood,  but  seized  upon  one 
point  of  it  to  give  him  comfort.  "  It  does  count, 
darling,"  she  said.  "  It  always  must,  when  a  father 
has  been  what  you  have  been  to  us." 

"  It  hasn't  counted  much  with  B.  Perhaps  it  will 
again  now." 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will.  It  was  there  all  the  time.  It 
will  be,  more  than  ever  now.  She'll  see  by  and  by 
what  you've  saved  her  from." 

"  What  I  tried  to.     Doesn't  she  see  it  now.''  " 

She  had  already  told  him  the  best.  Beatrix's  last 
word  had  been  the  message  of  love  to  him,  but  Caroline 
had  had  to  struggle  for  it. 

"  She's  all  upset,"  she  said.  "  She  can't  see  every- 
thing all  at  once.  She's  outraged  at  having  been 
jilted;  that  was  her  word.     She's  indignant  against  him 


382  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

for  lowering  her  in  her  own  eyes.  She  almost  seems  to 
hate  him  now." 

"  That's  because  she's  angry  with  him.  It  doesn't 
mean  that  she  won't  feel  it  a  lot  before  she's  done." 

"  No.    She's  hurt  and  angry  all  round." 

"  Angry  with  me,  then?  " 

"  No,  not  that.  And  at  the  end — I  told  you — she 
sent  you  her  love,  and  a  kiss.  Oh,  she  does  love  you. 
But  you'll  have  to  be  a  little  careful.  Dad." 

"  Careful,  eh.''  She  doesn't  think  I'm  going  to  crow 
over  her,  does  she?" 

"  Of  course  not.  And  I  told  her  how  sweet  you'd 
been  about  it — that  you  only  wanted  to  help  her  to 
forget  it." 

"Well,  what's  the  trouble  then?" 

She  hesitated  a  little.  "  It  was  unreasonable,"  she 
said,  "  but  if  you  hadn't  sent  him  away,  this  wouldn't 
have  happened." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  and  she  was  a  little  alarmed. 
He  had  been  much  ruffled  too ;  there  were  bristles  to 
be  smoothed  away  with  him  as  well  as  with  Beatrix. 
But  she  was  too  honest  not  to  want  to  tell  him  every- 
thing. 

He  relieved  her  immensely  by  laughing.  "  He's  what 
she  has  found  him  out  to  be,"  he  said,  "  and  she's  well 
out  of  it.  But  if  I  hadn't  done  what  I  did,  she'd  have 
been  well  in  it  by  this  time.  Poor  darling !  She's  been 
hurt,  and  she  wants  to  hit  out  all  round.  I  dare  say 
she  didn't  spare  you,  did  she?  " 

Caroline  laughed  in  her  turn.     "  I  didn't  know  any- 


THE  LAST  383 

thing  about  it,"  she  said.  "  I  didn't  know  what  love 
meant.  She  has  told  me  that  before,  you  know.  Per- 
haps I  don't  know  what  that  sort  of  love  means,  and 
that's  why  I  didn't  think  about  it  quite  as  you  did, 
Dad.  But  she  asked  me  to  forgive  her  for  saying 
that,  and  other  things,  before  I  left  her.  She's  very 
sweet,  poor  darling.     She  hates  hurting  anybody." 

They  sat  silent  for  a  time.  The  fire  of  logs  wheezed 
and  glowed  in  the  open  hearth.  Round  them  was  the 
deep  stillness  of  the  night  and  the  sleeping  house — 
that  stillness  of  the  country  which  brings  with  it  a 
sense  of  security,  so  little  likely  is  it  to  be  disturbed, 
but  also,  sometimes,  almost  a  sense  of  terror,  if  soli- 
tary nerves  are  on  edge.  To-night  it  was  only  peace 
that  lapped  them  round,  sitting  there  in  full  com- 
panionship and  affection. 

Presently  Grafton  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief:  "  Thank 
God  it's  all  over.  I'm  only  just  beginning  to  feel  it. 
We  shall  be  all  together  again.  It  has  spoilt  a  lot 
of  the  pleasure  of  this  place." 

"  We've  been  here  a  year  now,"  she  said.  "  And  we've 
had  some  very  happy  times.  It's  been  better,  even,  than 
we  thought  it  would." 

"  I  wish  we'd  done  it  before.  I  think  it  was  Aunt 
Mary  who  said  once  that  we  ought  to  have  done  it  ten 
years  ago  if  we  had  wanted  to  get  the  full  benefit  out 
of  it." 

"  What  did  she  mean  by  the  full  benefit .''  " 

He  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  did  not  answer 
her  question  directly.     "  It's  the  family  life  that  takes 


384  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

hold  of  you,"  he  said.  "  If  it's  a  happy  one  nothing 
else  counts  beside  it.  That's  what  this  business  of 
B's  has  put  in  danger.  Now  it's  over,  I  can  see  how 
great  the  danger  has  been." 

"  But  you  must  expect  her  to  marry  some  time, 
darling." 

"  I  know.  But  the  right  sort  of  fellow.  It's  got 
to  be  somebody  you  can  take  in.  I've  thought  it  all 
over,  while  this  has  been  going  on,  but  I  didn't  dare  to 
look  into  it  too  closely  because  this  wasn't  the  right 
fellow.  If  she'd  been  in  trouble,  afterwards,  she'd  have 
come  to  me.  But  I  shouldn't  have  been  able  to  do 
much  to  mend  it  for  her.  But  the  right  sort  of  mar- 
riage— I  should  have  had  my  share  in  that.  I  shan't 
dread  it,  when  it  comes,  for  any  of  you.  You'll  want 
me  to  know  all  about  your  happiness.  You'll  want  me 
to  be  with  you  sometimes,  and  you'll  want  to  write  to 
me  often,  so  as  to  keep  up.  I  shan't  be  out  of  it, — 
if  you  marry  the  right  fellow." 

"  I  can't  imagine  myself  being  happy  away  from  you 
for  long,  Daddy,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Ah,  that's  because  you  don't  know  what  it  is  yet, 
darling.  Oh,  you'll  be  happy  right  enough,  when  it 
comes.  But  you'll  be  thinking  of  me  too,  and  there'll 
always  be  the  contact — visits  or  letters.  Without  it, 
it  would  be  too  much — a  man  losing  his  daughter,  if  he 
loved  her.  That's  what  I've  feared  about  B.  She'd 
go  away.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  even  take  the  trouble 
to  write." 

"  Oh,  yes,  darling." 


THE  LAST       .  385 

"  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  tell  how  much  I  should 
be  losing  her.  Oh,  well,  it's  over  now.  One  needn't 
think  about  it  any  more.  She  won't  choose  that  sort 
of  fellow  again ;  and  the  right  sort  of  fellow  would 
want  her  to  keep  up  with  her  father." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  then  he  said :  "  It's 
given  me  a  lot  to  think  about.  When  your  children  are 
growing  up  you're  fairly  young.  Perhaps  you  don't 
value  your  family  life  as  much  as  you  might.  You 
hardly  know  what  they  are  to  you.  Then  suddenly 
they're  grown  up,  and  begin  to  leave  you.  You  don't 
feel  much  older,  but  the  past,  when  you  had  them  all 
with  you,  is  gone.  It's  a  big  change.  You've  moved 
up  a  generation.  If  you  can't  be  certain  of  having 
something  to  put  in  the  place  of  what  you've  lost " 

He  left  off.  She  understood  that,  now  the  danger 
was  removed,  he  was  allowing  himself  to  face  all  the 
troubles  that  he  had  hardly  dared  look  into,  and  so 
getting  rid  of  them. 

"  You'll  never  grow  old,  darling,"  she  said  fondly. 
"  Not  to  me,  at  any  rate.  And  if  I  ever  do  marry  I 
shall  always  want  you.  At  any  rate,  we  have  each 
other  now,  for  a  long  time,  I  hope.  If  B  does  marry 
— and  of  course  she  will,  some  day — it  isn't  likely  to 
be  for  some  time  now.  And  as  for  me,  I  don't  feel  like 
it  at  all.     I'm  so  happy  as  I  am." 

"  Darling  child,"  he  said.  "  What  about  Francis, 
Cara?     That  all  over.?" 

"  I'm  a  little  sorry  for  him.  Dad.  He's  been  awfully 
good  about  it.     I  do  like  him  as  a  friend,  you  know, 


386  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

and  it's  difficult  for  him  to  keep  that  up,  when  he  wants 
something  more  of  me.  But  he  writes  me  very  nice 
letters,  and  I  like  writing  to  him  too." 

"  That's  rather  dangerous,  darling,  if  you're  not 
going  to  give  him  what  he  wants." 

"  Is  it.  Daddy?  Can't  a  man  and  a  girl  be  friends — 
and  nothing  more?" 

"  He  wants  to  be  something  more,  doesn't  he?  You'd 
feel  rather  shocked  and  hurt,  wouldn't  you — if  he  wrote 
aaid  told  you  he  was  going  to  marry  somebody  else." 

She  smiled.  "  I  think  I  should  feel  rather  relieved," 
she  said. 

"  In  that  case,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"  I  don't  suppose  you  ever  will  marry  him.  I've  thought 
that,  perhaps,  you  might  after  a  time.  I'm  glad  of 
it,  darling.  I've  had  enough  lately.  I  want  you  all 
with  me — here  chiefly — for  a  bit  longer.  I  don't  want 
to  think  of  the  break-up  yet  awhile.  We're  going  to 
enjoy  Abington  together,  even  more  than  we  have  done. 
It's  going  to  be  a  great  success  now." 

"  I  love  it,"  she  said.  "  I've  always  loved  home, 
but  this  is  more  of  a  home  than  we  have  ever  had. 
I  love  every  day  of  my  life  here." 

They  talked  a  little  longer  of  the  pleasures  they  had 
had,  and  would  have,  in  their  country  home,  of  the 
friends  they  had  made  in  it,  of  the  difference  in  out- 
look it  had  given  to  both  of  them.  Caroline  had  seen 
her  father  alter  slightly  during  the  past  year,  grow 
simpler  in  his  tastes,  less  dependent  upon  pleasures 
that  had  to  be  sought  for,  and,  as  she  knew  now  that 


THE  LAST  387 

he  had  realised  himself,  still  more  welded  to  the  life 
his  children  made  for  him.  She  saw  something  of 
what  it  would  be  to  him  to  lose  it,  and  if  she  had  felt 
any  waverings  in  that  matter  of  a  marriage  that  seemed 
to  promise  every  known  factor  of  happiness  in  mar- 
riage, except  the  initial  propulsion  of  love  on  both 
sides,  she  now  relinquished  them.  If  love  should  come 
to  her  some  day,  and  all  the  rest  should  follow,  she 
knew  that  her  love  for  her  father  would  not  grow  less. 
But  at  present  she  wanted  no  one  but  him,  and  her 
sisters  and  brother,  and  her  dear  Dragon.  She  looked 
forward  with  intense  happiness  to  the  new  year  that 
was  coming  to  them,  in  the  life  that  was  so  pleasant 
to  her,  yielding  all  sorts  of  delights  that  she  had  only 
tasted  of  before,  and  making  quiet  and  strong  the 
spirit  within  her. 

And  he  saw  the  change  in  her  a  little  too,  during  that 
midnight  hour,  in  which  they  sat  and  talked  together 
before  the  fire.  She  had  based  herself  upon  this  quiet 
country  life  in  a  way  that  went  be3'ond  anything  either 
of  them  had  expected  from  it.  The  daily  round  of 
duties  and  pleasures  sufficed  for  her.  Less  than  Bea- 
trix, less  probably  than  Barbara  would  be,  was  she 
dependent  upon  the  distractions  which  had  formed  part 
of  the  woof  and  warf  of  the  life  in  which  she  had  been 
brought  up.  How  far  they  were  from  the  ultimate  sim- 
plicities of  life  perhaps  neither  of  them  suspected,  in- 
fluenced and  supported  as  they  were  by  wealth  and 
habit.  But  at  the  roots,  at  least  of  Caroline's  nature, 
lay  the  quiet  acceptance  of  love  and  duty  as  the  best 


388  ABINGTON  ABBEY 

things  that  life  could  afford,  and  they  had  put  forth 
more  vigorous  shoots  in  this  kind  settled  country  soil. 
They  sat  on,  watching  the  dying  fire,  talking  some- 
times, sometimes  silent,  loth  to  break  up  this  hour  of 
contentment  and  felt  companionship,  which  held  the 
seeds  of  so  much  more  in  the  future.  And  there  we 
must  leave  them  for  the  present,  looking  forward. 

THE   END 


/) 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


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